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/ 


ONCE UPON A TIME 


STORIES 


BY 

ROBERTA B. NELSON 

J 





THE EDITOR PUBLISHING CO 

1895- 


\ 

r 


. 0 


Copyright, 1895, 

By THE EDITOR PUBLISHING CO. 


INDEX. 


Page 

A Woman and a Cynic, 5 

Champagne Corks— 


The Monk of Simopetria, .... 

137 

The Tenor, 

149 

Cuba Columbus, 

162 

Mrs. Bennett, 

. 186 

The Redemption of a Soul — A Legend, 

194 

At Latonia, 

204 

The Remains of the Marquis, 

207 

Through a Glass, Darkly, 

. 213 





. 


















• i 

* 



















• 









. 






























































' - 

* 

*> 








•« 










ONCE UPON A TIME 


STORIES 


BY 


ROBERTA B. NELSON 




Franklin Ohio 

THE EDITOR PUBLISHING CO 
1895. 







Copyright, 1895, 

By THE EDITOR PUBLISHING CO. 

















INDEX. 




Page 

% 

A Woman and a Cynic, 5 

Champagne Corks — 

The Monk of Simopetria, . . 137 

The Tenor, 149 

4 

Cuba Columbus, , 162 

Mrs. Bennett, 186 

The Redemption of a Soul — A Legend, 194 

At Latonia, . 204 

The Remains of the Marquis, ... 207 

Through a Glass, Darkly, 213 





























































































































































































































































. 

& 












































A WOMAN AND A CYNIC. 


CHAPTER I. 

Taking off her gloves as she went, Mrs. Carter 
slowly ascended the steps of her New York house ; 
passing through the hall, she entered the drawing- 
room and in the semi-obscurity of the room, groped 
her way to a chair. 

“Are you here, Chatterton?” she asked. 

“Yes, of course; where else should I be this 
dreadful afternoon?” answered a man who was 
lying at full length on a couch, near a window. 

“ Chatterton, you are the most refreshing man I 
ever knew ; positively the only one who is satisfied 
to stay in a nice, cool, dark room on blazing June 
days. Dwight and most other men have not yet 
learned how to keep cool ; Dwight comes in here 
and says, ‘ Heavens, Sara, how on earth can you 
live in the dark? Yes, its cool, delightfully cool — 
the best place Fve struck to-day, but — do let’s have 


6 


a little light and air/ with that he opens the blinds 
and lets in a stream of light and flies. In five 
minutes the room is no cooler than the street, 
which fact he is quick to discover and goes out, 
leaving me to spend the rest of the afternoon in a 
room like an oven.” 

“ I have learned several things that Dwight has 
still to learn,” answered Dwight’s brother, “ but, 
sit down, my beautiful, and tell me where you have 
been.” 

Without heeding his demand, his sister-in-law 
asked, “ Why do you call me that ?” 

Chatterton smiled, “ Don’t you remember a bit 
of poetry we all used to recite at school ? I think 
it is in the Third or Fourth Reader, and it is all 
about an Arab who called his horse, ‘ my beauti- 
ful.’ Well, you remind*me of that.” 

“ Many thanks,” said Mrs. Carter in mock indig- 
nation, “ one likes to be likened to a horse.” 

“ But the Arabian horses are very beautiful, and 
the Arab always loves his horse more than any- 
thing else and — ” 

“ Never mind, don’t turn my brain with flattery. 
I forgive you the same.” 

u Well, I must hear what took you out this hot 
afternoon.” 


7 


“ I have been to a dress-maker — think of it — 
a dress-maker in such weather ! But I am obliged 
to go to that reception to-night; the princess will 
soon be leaving us, so we have to keep up this 
round of gayety a little longer. I wonder if our 
gracious guest is as tired of it as I am. But our 
country doesn’t entertain royalty very often.” 

“ What will you do when the Princess has gone — 
rest?” 

“ Best ! ” echoed this devotee of fashion, “ oh, 
benighted man ! no, we shall think up something 
new.” 

Chatterton Carter had been abroad for several 
years and had but recently returned to New York. 
On the night of his return he had sauntered into 
the club where he expected to find his brother, 
Dwight. He found the latter engaged in playing 
billiards. “ Back are you, old man?” was his 
greeting, as he held out his left hand to Chatter- 
ton, “well, that’s right — no place like New York. 
Go on, Jacob, I’ll win this game, yet.” 

Chatterton watched the game for a few minutes 
and then turned to go. 

“ Oh, Chatterton, are you going? ” called Dwight, 
blithely ; “ better make my house your headquar- 
ters. I’m keeping house — there is the address,” 


8 


hastily scribbling it on a card, “ I’m married, 
you know; think I wrote you that, didn’t I?” 

“Yes,” answered Chatterton, who, to tell the 
truth, had totally forgotten the fact. 

“I don’t suppose you will find my wife at home; 
we are seldom there, but just go right in and take 
possession. I can’t go with you just now — must 
play this game out.” So Chatterton sought out the 
house for himself and found Mrs. Carter at home. 

She received him graciously and cordially and a 
mutual liking sprang up between them. 

She was a very beautiful woman, gracious and 
queenly in her bearing, a thorough woman of the 
world, a perfect mistress of social conventionali- 
ties. 

Since the day of th y eir meeting, now three months 
ago, Chatterton Carter and his brother’s wife had 
been great friends. Chatterton found it pleasant 
to lie on a divan in his brother’s pretty drawing- 
room and listen to his brother’s pretty wife as she 
talked of balls and musicales, theaters and after- 
noon teas. 

He never went to any of these “ functions ; ” he 
had wearied of them all, long ago, and sometimes 
he fancied Sara Carter was weary of them, too, but 


9 


she never admitted it and attended to all society’s 
demands with unflagging zeal. 

Dwight was seldom at home ; he was devoted to 
business and never went into society, spending 
what little leisure he had at his club. 

Chatterton could not quite make out the terms 
on which Dwight and his wife stood, for neither, 
by any possible chance, ever showed any inclina- 
tion for the other’s society, going their separate 
ways, apparently by mutual consent, and yet, quite 
kind and gracious to each other when they hap- 
pened to be at home at the same time. 

Chatterton came to the conclusion that there was 
“ a screw loose somewhere ” in his brother’s mar- 
ried life, but he did not try to penetrate the mys- 
tery, merely accepting the state of things as though 
quite accustomed to witness connubial infelicity, 
and, indeed, it is no uncommon thing in the social 
world, though not one case in a thousand is ever 
known outside the house ; those of the great world 
are such consummate actors, such utter hypocrites ! 
But then, one must keep up appearances ; why need 
all the world and his wife know that the love which 
brought about a marriage is dead — or has never 
lived? 


10 


CHAPTER II. 

Mrs. Carter belonged to eight clubs — literary, 
social and philanthropical, and to one which could 
not be put in any class — the Fresh Air Club. The 
members of this club take an early morning train 
from New York to some small neighboring town 
and walk back until overtaken by an evening train 
bound for the city. The favorite trip is from Fish- 
kill village to Cold Spring by way of the mountain 
path ; dinner is eaten at the Beacon Inn at North 
Beacon, and at Cold Spring the weary walkers take 
the train for home. Mrs. Carter returned from this 
trip one day with a new idea in her pretty head. 
She speedily unfolded her plan to Chatterton, who 
was rather a better listener than Dwight, for he, at 
least, did not forget, in a day, all she had told him 
of her ever changing plans and projects. He was 
quiet and reserved, seldom speaking of his own life 
or travels, though he- had visited almost every land 
under the sun. He made a study of human nature 
and found it interesting; he was always cynical and 
had no faith in anything, but Mrs. Carter found 
him a willing listener. 


11 


“ Chatterton,” she began, “ I have been hearing 
a good deal, lately, of the Fresh Air Fund, and 
have given a little to it myself ; you know, it is a 
fund raised for the purpose of sending poor women 
and children to the country for a few weeks ; their 
board is paid at some farm house, and they are 
allowed to stay two weeks. I think it is a very 
worthy charity, and I think I shall give some poor 
people a longer stay — say two months — that would 
do some permanent good ; on my walk to-day I 
saw, near Fishkill Peak, a delightful old farm- 
house, vacant; my plan is to rent that house and 
go there myself, instead of taking my usual trip to 
Newport. I will fix up the old house, plainly but 
comfortably, and let the managers of the Fresh Air 
Fund send me several worthy women and their 
children to be my guests, absolutely free of charge, 
for two months. What do you think of it?” 

Chatterton smiled, cynically, “ I think the worthy 
women will go home with your spoons.” 

“ Oh, Chatterton ! they would be too grateful to 
me to rob me.” 

“ Gratitude is a lost art, my beautiful.” 

“Well, I mean to try it, at any rate,” said Mrs. 
Carter. 

She carried her plan into execution and extended 


12 


her hospitality to five poor, over-worked mothers 
and all their children. 

At the end of two months Mrs. Carter returned 
to New York, and found Chatterton already there, 
though he, too, had been away. 

Dwight had not left the city ; he was always too 
busy. 

“ I have no time for anything,” he once said, “ I 
find no time to eat, no time to sleep ; I wonder if 
I shall ever find time to die.” 

When Mrs. Carter, on her return, came upon 
Chatterton in the library, her greeting was, “ Well, 
Pm back, you see, Chatterton and — the spoons are 
safe.” 

“ It was a success, then ? ” 

“ Perfect ; but Pm glad its over ; I think they 
enjoyed it but — I didn’t. What is there to do now, 
I wonder.” 

“ Why are you always searching for something 
to do?” asked Chatterton, “ why not stay quietly 
at home and do nothing ? ” 

“ Ah, I couldn’t ; I must keep getting up an 
interest in something ; when one thing fails or is 
finished, I immediately hunt up something new. 
To stay quietly at home, would give me time to 
think and then — I should go mad.” 


13 


The last words were said almost in a whisper, 
and Mrs. Carter was clasping her hands together 
nervously. 

Chatterton was greatly tempted to probe this 
woman’s heart ; he knew so well how to do it and 
he had become curious to learn something of her 
past life, for, as yet, he knew nothing, neither who 
she had been, nor where she had lived before her 
marriage to Dwight. That there was either some- 
thing wrong or something sad in those by-gone 
years, he divined from the silence maintained con- 
cerning them by both Dwight and his wife, but 
Chatterton disdained asking questions. 

So on this occasion he refrained from the attempt 
to wrest her secret from her. 

He said nothing and Mrs. Carter, having recov- 
ered her composure, went on speaking: “I try 
everything I hear of or can think of. If I lived in 
Washington I should be a lobbyist, but there is no 
demand for that kind of talent here. 

“ I made one attempt to establish a political salon, 
but the men could not be brought to believe that 
women knew anything of politics, or that their 
opinions were worth the hearing ; the men would 
collect in little circles and discuss political events, 
but if a woman so much as poked her nose inside 


14 


their circles, she received surprised stares, was com- 
pletely ignored or else the subject was immediately 
changed so as to bring it down to her limited (!) 
intellect. 

“ I soon gave up my political salon and went back 
to afternoon teas and card parties. Then I began 
to take an interest in spiritualism and attended 
many a seance, but the novelty of that soon wore 
olf, and now it merely disgusts me. After that I 
took up the Chinese question and was very enthu- 
siastic over it, but the disastrous experience of a 
friend of mine, Mrs. Compton, put me quite out of 
conceit with that.” 

“ Tell me her experience,” said Chatterton, idly. 

u Well, you see, she took such an interest in the 
poor, benighted heathen, and had the Chinese 
Society send her a young Chinaman who was study- 
ing for the ministry. She pledged herself to clothe, 
feed and lodge him, also to educate him, and then 
when his education was completed, he was to return 
to China and preach Christianity; wasn’t that a 
noble work for her to undertake?” 

“ Very,” said Chatterton, sardonically, “but what 
was the end of it ? ” 

u Well, it didn’t end well,” Mrs. Carter admit- 
ted, “ for, unfortunately, just as his education was 


15 


about finished, the Chinaman fell in love with Mrs. 
Compton’s cook ; the girl rejected him and he hung 
himself in Mrs. Compton’s house — and she had to 
live in the house afterwards; wasn’t it tragic?” 

“ What? that she had to live in the house after- 
wards ? ” 

“ Chatterton, I should like to shake you ! ” 

This act was a manifest impossibility, for Chat- 
terton was over six feet in height, broad shoul- 
dered and large limbed. Indeed, Chatterton was a 
magnificently-formed man, with a strikingly hand- 
some face, a dark, stern face, with dark, unfathoma- 
ble eyes. 

His smile was like a flash of lightning, so brill- 
iant and so swiftly gone ; it glorified his dark face 
wonderfully. 


16 


CHAPTER III. 

Mrs. Carter gave a reception one atternoon and 
after her dear “ four hundred” friends had gone, 
Chatterton went in and asked if he might join her 
in a cup of tea ; she graciously acquiesced and 
poured the tea. Seated behind the dainty tea-table, 
she made a pretty picture, a picture which quite 
suited Chatterton’s fastidious taste ; her gown was 
perfect, her manner gracious, and she seemed quite 
“ to the manner born.” 

“ I wish you had come in sooner, Chatterton ; 
there were some pleasant people here.” 

“ No doubt; but I dislike such functions; people 
are always so airy and self-satisfied. I invariably 
feel like saying something to take them down a 
peg or two ; don’t you ever have that inclina- 
tion ?” 

“ Never ; you see I am acquainted with the other 
side of the thing. I know what it is to be taken 
down ‘ a peg or two,’ as you say.” 

“ You?” in incredulous surprise. 

“Even I; it was in this way: Not long ago it 
became the fashion to adopt a middle name, so I 


17 


had my cards printed Mrs. D. Brant Carter, but no 
one, not even Dwight, knew whom that was 
intended to designate ; then the hyphen became 
the vogue, and I hyphenated my name this way : 
Mrs. Dwight Brant-Carter. I took my usual trip to 
Newport that summer; I was very ‘ airy/ dressed 
handsomely, drove a great deal and was surrounded 
by my most fashionable acquaintances ; one even- 
ing, I, arranged as gorgeously as the Queen of 
Sheba, descended to the ball-room of the hotel ; the 
corridors and verandas were crowded, fashionable 
people were elbowed by people from country towns, 
who, having a little money, came to visit the re- 
nowned resort. As I came tripping down the stairs 
in all my grandeur and squaw-like glitter, I was 
joined by Mrs. Courtenay and her party, very fine 
people, you know; just at the foot of the stair-case 
stood a party of country people, an old man, his 
wife and two buxom daughters ; as I, Mrs. Dwight 
Brant-Carter, if you please, sailed past them, I 
heard ( and the Courtenays heard, too) the old man 
exclaim : “ Well, if there ain’t Sallie Dows! ” 

“ Ah,” laughed Chatterton, “ a case of mistaken 
identity.” 

“ No, it was Sallie Dows.” 


18 


Chatterton was extremely puzzled ; this peerless I 
woman bear such a plebeian name! it was prepos- j 
terous ! 

“Yes,” Mrs. Carter went on, calmly, “my old j 
neighbors at Hogan’s Corners called me Sallie ; my 
father called me Sairy ; I wrote it Sarah ; now it is 
Sara.” 

“The evolution of a name,” said Chatterton, 
with a laugh. 

After this, Chatterton began to speculate more j 
than ever on the past life of his brother’s wife, but 
still he asked no questions. “ Why should one 
ask questions ? ” he was wont to say, “ everything 
comes out sooner or later and one can learn all one 
cares to know by simply waiting, and one has 
plenty of time — all the time there is.” In that j 
creed lay the difference existing between Chatter- 
ton and Dwight; the former was never in a hurry 
and the latter never at rest. When Mrs. Carter 
mentioned her maiden name, Chatterton knew he 
had never before heard it and yet, surely, Dwight, j 
in writing to him of his marriage, must have men- 
tioned the name of his bride, but he had never 
written Sallie Dows, Chatterton was sure of that, ! 
and Hogan’s Corners, her native place ; what could 


19 


that mean? For he was sure Dwight had married 
in New York. 

Well, time would tell and he could wait. 
And he had not long to wait for a clue ; that 
same evening he sat at the piano striking a few 
chords and singing softly, while Mrs. Carter re- 
clined idly in a great arm-chair; presently he began 
to sing the old yet ever sweet “ Way down upon 
the Swanee River,” but he had hardly finished the 
first line when he was interrupted by Mrs. Carter, 
who gave a low cry of pain, “ Oh, not that, Chat- 
terton ! Please not that ! ” 

He turned around on the piano-stool to look at 
her, and she, seeming to feel some explanation 
necessary, said, “ My husband used to sing that.” 

Chatterton now looked at her in genuine aston- 
ishment, “ What, Dwight! I did not know he ever 
sang a note in his life.” 

“ He never did,” she answered, quietly, but she 
vouchsafed nothing further, and Chatterton began 
another song, saying to himself, u So there was 
another husband ! That accounts for the name ; the 
plot begins to thicken ; I wonder who the husband 
was and whether it is from love or hate that she 
cannot bear his songs.” 


20 


One day Chatterton and his sister-in-law were 
walking in Central Park, and growing weary, sat 
down to rest; near them, a group of children with 
nurses in attendance, were at play ; Chatterton grew 
quite interested in them, but Mrs. Carter took no 
heed of them, at which Chatterton was not sur- 
prised, as he believed she cared nothing for chil- 
dren. 

Presently, seeing an acquaintance pass, Chatter- 
ton excused himself for a moment to speak to him, 
and on turning to go back to Mrs. Carter, great 
was his surprise to see that she had left her seat, 
and was standing among the children, with one 
little white-robed youngster in her arms, and she 
was kissing it, passionately ; divining that she did 
not wish him to* witness this little scene, Chatter- 
ton, considerately, turned his back and appeared to 
be interested in the passing throng. 

When he turned once more towards Mrs. Carter, 
she was sitting, demurely, on the bench again, and 
she said not one word about the children. 

“ And there was also a child,” said Chatterton to 
himself, adding another page to the past life of his 
beautiful sister-in-law. 


21 


CHAPTER IV. 

In a handsomely furnished flat, not far from 
Dwight Carter’s residence, lived Mrs. Maitland, a 
sweet-faced, white-haired old lady with the gentlest 
manner and kindest heart in the world. She had 
been an invalid all her life, and for the last twenty 
years had been perfectly helpless, being lifted from 
bed to chair, where she sat all day long, reading, 
talking, and watching the people in the street. 

Quite alone in the world was this patient sulferer ; 
husband and children had long since passed away, 
and she was left to the care of hirelings, but no 
word of complaint ever left her lips and many were 
those who went to her for comfort and counsel, 
always sure of being cheered and comforted. Her 
friends were legion, and on her table was sure to 
be the newest book or magazine, the earliest flowers 
and the finest fruit which loving friends could find. 
She was a fine linguist and a sincere book-lover, 
which made her captivity easier to bear than would 
have been the case had she cared less for reading. 
A deeply-rooted love of books is the greatest bless- 
ing one can have. Books are one’s best, truest and 

2 


22 


safest friends, always ready to instruct or amuse 
and yet equally ready to be laid aside when one is 
weary; not like one’s best friend among humanity, 
who is quite sure to drop in when one least wants 
company, or does not come when one is particularly 
lonely, and who invariably discusses funerals when 
one would prefer to hear of weddings. 

Mrs. Carter was devotedly attached to Mrs. Mait- 
land, and made frequent visits to the cheery home 
of the invalid. Mrs. Maitland had known and 
loved the mother of Chatterton and Dwight Carter 
and remembered them as boys ; their mother had 
long been dead, but her old friend still cherished 
her memory and took an interest in her boys, 
though she had not seen Chatterton since he had 
grown to manhood, as he had passed much of his 
time in foreign lands. 

Dwight, soon after his marriage, had taken his 
bride to see his mother’s friend, and from that day 
a deep affection sprang up between the two women. 

But of Mrs. Carter’s past life, Mrs. Maitland 
knew nothing, for on that one subject the young 
wife was reticent. That she had known some great 
sorrow the keen-eyed old lady was certain, but the 
nature of it she could not divine and innate deli- 
cacy forbade her probing the wounded heart. She 


23 


knew Dwight to be an honest, conscientious man 
and a kind husband, but somehow — somewhere — 
there was u a little rift within the lute.” 

For a time she suspected Chatterton to be the 
cause of trouble, but soon discovered her mistake, 
though she continued to dread his influence over 
his brother’s wife. 

He was, the invalid thought, destroying the ele- 
ment of faith in his sister-in-law, though he might 
be doing so unconsciously. This, Mrs. Maitland 
learned from what Mrs. Carter said of him — the 
cynical little speeches that were quoted as Chatter- 
ton’s. And it was chiefly of Chatterton that Mrs. 
Carter talked ; she seemed to defer to his opinion 
on every subject. Once Mrs. Maitland asked her 
lovely visitor, “ Doesn’t Dwight go anywhere with 
you?” 

“ Oh, very seldom,” was the answer, “ he says 
he is too busy, so he always asks Chatterton to take 
me, if I can not go alone.” 

One September day, after Mrs. Carter’s return 
from her visit to the country with the charity 
guests of the Fresh Air Fund, she went to see Mrs. 
Maitland, taking her the morning paper. “I 
thought I would bring it around and get you to 


24 


read me the news, instead of sitting down to read it 
myself, she explained/’ 

She sank into a chair and took out some em- 
broidery from her bag, u Now, we will have a com- 
fortable morning,” she said. 

Mrs. Maitland read several items and then began 
an article on the Russians. 

“ Oh, don’t say Russians to me,” interrupted her 
guest, laughingly, “ its a sore subject ; did I never 
tell you my Russian experience? 

“ You remember the time there was such a hue 
and cry throughout the country about the starving 
Russians and ships were sent to them with grain 
and provisions and things? 

“ Well, Mrs. DeLancey and I got up a church 
fair for the benefit of the Russians, and it was so 
very successful that we were highly delighted and 
ready to do anything for the poor, dear Russians; a 
few days after our fair, I received a call from a 
gentleman — a Russian, and oh, such a nice, polite, 
handsome fellow ! He said he had learned that I 
took an interest in the sufferings of his country- 
men and thought I might be willing to assist him 
in raising funds to send them. He was an artist, 
but being a foreigner, had no influential friends ; 
he proposed that I induce my friends to visit his 


25 


studio on a certain day, where, for a small admis- 
sion fee, he would exhibit his paintings and the 
proceeds be sent to Russia. 

“ He seemed so earnest and sincere and was so 
polite and gentlemanly that I at once agreed to the 
proposition and after setting a day for the exhibi- 
tion, he left and I went straightway to Mrs. De- 
Lancey, who became enthusiastic over the new 
plan. We interested all our friends, and when the 
day came the artist’s studio was crowded ; he ex- 
hibited a large number of paintings and made quite 
a picture himself in his Russian costume. We had 
two little girls, dressed in the Russian style, to 
hand the tea which I made myself, in the Russian 
way. It was a delightful reception, and several of 
the visitors, appreciating the worthiness of the 
cause, left more than their admission fee in the 
little basket set at the door to receive the money. 

(< We made fifty dollars and I handed it to the 
artist, telling him that he should have the pleasure 
of sending it, as it was he who had suggested the 
reception. He demurred at first, but was persuaded 
to take charge of the money to be sent to the poor 
Russians. 

“ Two or three days later, I went to the studio 
with some money which had been contributed to 


26 


the Russian fund, thinking I would give it to the 
artist to send with what he already had. Imagine 
my surprise when I found the studio empty ! Not 
a vestige of a painting there, and, on inquiry, I 
learned that the ‘ foreign gentleman ? had only rent- 
ed the room for a few days and had just taken 
possession the day before our reception. I also 
learned that the paintings had been rented from a 
a picture-dealer, not a block away ; the man was an 
imposter and had decamped with the fifty dollars ! 
No, you need not mind about reading Russian 
articles to me” 

Long and merrily did the invalid laugh over this 
experience of the vivacious little society woman. 

Then returning to the newspaper, she said, “ Here 
is something about a new Faith doctor, I will read 
that.” 

When she had finished Mrs. Carter was leaning 
forward with an intent look on her face. 

“I believe Fll look into that Faith cure,” she said, 
“ I believe faith can cure and I am going to see that 
woman, the new doctor; give me the address, please; 
I am going right now.” 

u Oh, my dear !” remonstrated the old lady, “don't 
do that ; there is nothing in the doctrine and no 
telling what kind of people you may fall in with.” 


27 


“ Fll take Mrs. DeLancey with me ; perhaps it 
will prove interesting, and it will be something to 
do at any rate.” 

She wrote down the address while she was speak- 
ing, and then rose to go. 


CHAPTER V. 

Mrs. Carter, following, as usual, the impulse of 
the moment, went, in company with Mrs. DeLancey, 
to see the woman who claimed to cure by Faith. 
They found her to be a small woman with snapping 
black eyes and an aggressive manner, not an 
agreeable woman, but one who had an abiding faith 
in her own opinions, none other were worthy of con- 
sideration. She seemed to be perfectly convinced 
that there was no such thing in the world as 
physical suffering; people were never ill ; they only 
imagined that they were, and if they had faith enough 
in the fact of their good health, they would quickly 
leave their sick-beds. 

These doctrines she endeavored to instill into the 
minds of the fashionable throng invited to hear her 


28 


at Mrs. Carter’s house. Then Mrs. DeLancey 
engaged her to harangue in her drawing-room, and 
other women equally idle or equally anxious to enjoy 
a new “fad” followed in their train. 

Mrs. Sinton, the Faith doctor, also gave lectures 
in a small hall hired for the purpose, but these 
lectures were patronized by people less fashionable 
than those congregated in the drawing-rooms. 

The fad of curing by Faith lasted for several 
months with Mrs. Carter, and she devoted much 
time to it. 

Mrs. Maitland laughed at her enthusiasm, and 
Chatterton gave his cynical smile, when she told him 
of it, and quoted, “ This, too, will pass away.” 

Dwight listened, indulgently, to her rhapsodies 
and speedily forgot it all. His mind was filled 
with business cares and interests and he had learned 
to find in such interests his solace. He looked at 
his pretty wife very wistfully, sometimes, wishing 
with all his true and loving heart that there might 
be more sympathy — a better understanding, between 
them. 

But it was Chatterton who showed the greatest 
interest in Mrs. Carter’s social affairs, and he studied 
her as he had a habit of studying all those with 


29 


whom he came in contact. He had gained a won- 
derful insight into human nature. 

One day Mrs. Carter, sobbing pitifully, came 
into the library, and to Chatterton, who was lying 
on the divan, she explained : 

“ Oh, Chatterton, it is too dreadful ! There was 
a woman who always attended Mrs. Sinton’s lectures 
at the hall and believed in her doctrine, and, last 
week, her little girl fell ill, and — oh — oh — it is so 
dreadful ! she never even sent for a physician and 
now the child is dead — oh — oh ! ” 

Chatterton smiled ; he could not help it. 

“ But, my beautiful, I thought that was the idea, 
that no physician was ever necessary.” 

“ Yes, yes, of course, but the child was really 
sick and she ought to have had a real doctor — she 
just let her child die ! ” 

The death of the child, who had been allowed to 
die for lack of medical attendance, weighed upon 
Mrs. Carter and she continued to sob. Chatterton 
got up from the divan and placing a stool at Mrs. 
Carters feet, sat down there, then, taking her hands 
from her face, he held them fast in his. 

“ Now my beautiful,” he began, “ I want you to 
listen to me : That child was not yours why should 
you mourn for it ? 


30 


“ You must not shoulder other people’s burdens, 
and, besides, death is more desirable than life, it is 
a deliverance from life ; why should you mourn for 
the dead, especially other people’s dead ? 

“ I tell you that you must stop putting your heart 
into these hobbies of yours, then when they fail it 
will not hurt you. Oh, my beautiful ! you must 
learn as I have learned, not to let anything hurt 
you. 

“ Seal up in an adamantine case that tender heart 
of yours, it is not a desirable thing to possess. 

“You are always being disappointed ; that is 
because you insist upon expecting. Now I expect 
nothing, hope for nothing, believe in nothing, and 
I am never disappointed ; I could not be. 

“You think people will be grateful for the kind- 
ness you show them and are grieved when you find 
they are not. 

“ I tell you there is no such thing as gratitude.” 

Here Mrs. Carter interrupted. 

“ But Chatterton, I have known you to give mon- 
ey and clothing, too, to beggars ; don’t you suppose 
they were grateful ? ” 

“ Not a bit of it ; like as not they left the clothing 
at the first pawn-shop and spent the money for 
drink. If they did not so much the better for their 


31 


families ; if they did, why, it was no concern of 
mine. . 

“ I gave merely because they asked me and I am 
always obliging, then, too, I wanted to get rid of 
them, but as for the gratitude — ! 

“ There is a lesson I want to teach you, my beau- 
tiful ; I want you to be f a looker-on in Vienna 
think of the world as a stage and of the people as 
‘ merely players ; ’ do not let them enter your heart. 

“Keep yourself outside of all sympathy, and 
remember always that the people about you are 
merely acting out their parts, whether of tragedy 
or comedy.” 

“Oh, Chatterton, you surely don’t mean all this I 
It is terrible ! Are you quite heartless?” 

“ Quite ; and I am the most contented man in 
the world. 

“ That is all one can gain — contentment, for 
there is no charity, no gratitude, no generosity, no 
faith ; friendship is a mockery, a delusion, a snare, 
and love is but a name and a name that is writ in 
water.” 

“ No, no,” cried Mrs. Carter, while the tears ran 
down her cheeks. 

But Chatterton was inexorable and drove the 
iron into her soul, endeavoring to guide her into 


32 


the path where he deemed she would never suffer — 
the path of cynicism. He was terribly in earnest ; 
all the languid ease of manner habitual to him had 
vanished ; he was determined to place this tender- 
hearted woman beyond all mental pain. 

“ I know,” he went on, more gently, “ that you 
have suffered much at some period of your life ; I 
do not seek to learn how or through whom. 

“ I see that you are not happy — I mean con- 
tented — there is no such thing as being happy.” 

“ Yes, there is, oh, Chatterton, don’t!” cried the 
tortured soul, still clinging to old beliefs. 

“I tell you there is no happiness,” was the stern 
rejoinder, “ no one is ever happy, really, truly 
happy, for one single hour ; there is always some 
alloy, something lacking ; it may be unthought of 
at times, but it exists, and we remember afterwards 
that if such or such a thing had happened during 
that hour when we thought we were quite happy, it 
would have added to our pleasure. 

“ Happiness that can be added to is not happi- 
ness — the best thing is contentment. 

“ Do not believe in your friends; do not pin your 
faith to anything — ” 

“ Chatterton ! — ” 


33 


“ Remember that you are a mere spectator/’ he 
went on, ruthlessly, “ merely looking on while peo- 
ple play out their lives ; if the play gives you any 
pleasure enjoy it, but put yourself out of the reach 
of pain : you can do it and you must.” 

“'Oh, no, no; I prefer to keep my faith in my 
friends and in all humanity even though I suffer in 
their sufferings,” cried Mrs. Carter, trying to free 
her hands from Chatterton’s grasp and leave him, 
but he held her fast and took no heed of her inter- 
ruptions. 

“ Epicurus considered tranquil indifference to be 
the most desirable thing to which one could attain ; 
that it was best never to decide upon anything but 
to leave everything to chance, for it is blind chance 
that rules the world.” 

“ Chatterton, let me go ; you are destroying my 
illusions and you shall not deprive me of every- 
thing ; I am in the world and therefore of the 
world ; I will not be a looker-on.” 

“Plotinus says, ‘ Life is a mere stage-play; all 
the misery in it is only imaginary, all grief a mere 
cheat of the players ; the soul is not in the game, 
it looks on while nothing more than the eternal 
phantom weeps and laments.” 

“ What do I care what Plotinus says ? ” 


34 


“ The Stoics tell us,” the man’s voice went on, 
u to remember that there are but two classes of 
men, the wise and the fools, ‘as sticks can only be 
straight or crooked and very few sticks in the world 
are absolutely straight/ and that a wise man will 
train himself to receive, tranquilly, all the shocks 
of destiny, and to be above all passion and all pain. 

“You must learn this lesson, my beautiful, and 
then you will have the pleasure of life without the 
pain ; you must be above all passion and all pain ; 
in that way, and only in that way, your life will be 
bearable. 

“ I learned this long ago and now — why, I do 
not know the meaning of pain.” 

“ I don’t care for the philosophy of the Stoics or 
Epicurus or — or — that other old fogy, and I wish — 
oh, I wish you had never told me all this ; it is 
horrible, Chatterton, horrible ! ” 

Chatterton only smiled, that strange, Voltaire- 
like smile of his, and then bent down and gently 
kissed her hands before releasing them. 

She hurried from the room and Chatterton said 
to himself, as he stood up to stretch his long legs : 
u Its hard work making a cynic out of a woman, 
but she won’t forget the lesson and she will profit 
by it.” 


35 


CHAPTER VI. 

But Chatterton was mistaken, for Mrs. Carter 
never became a cynic, although she imbibed many 
of his opinions, and, at times, almost believed that 
he was right and that tranquil indifference was the 
best thing to which human beings could attain, 
still, her womanly nature cried out against the idea 
of merely looking on while other people suffered ; 
she must rejoice with those who rejoiced and weep 
with those who wept. 

In the old days, before she became Dwight Car- 
ter’s wife, she had been a wonderfully sympathetic 
woman, but now she lived under constraint; she 
had never really tried to love Dwight and he, 
though loving her with every throb of his brave 
heart, was learning to repress all exhibition of ten- 
derness, seeing she cared nothing for him ; she was 
sweet and gentle with him always, but love was 
lacking and poor Dwight knew it, and buried him- 
self in his business interests to forget his loveless 
home. He thought to please her best by keeping 
out of her way as much as possible. 


36 


One day, while Chatterton’s lesson in cynicism 
was still fresh in her mind, Mrs. Carter went to see 
Mrs. Maitland. During the conversation Mrs. 
Maitland asked, “ What has become of your friend, 
Mrs. DeLaneey ? I have not heard you speak of 
her for a month.” 

“ Oh, we had a little disagreement and now we 
merely bow as our carriages pass. But that is what 
you should have expected. 

“ Things always end in that way — 

‘ For love is lost ; the way to friendship’s gone. 

Though David had his Jonathan, Christ his John.’ ” 

“Now, my dear,” said Mrs. Maitland, sitting up 
very straight in her chair, and speaking with un- 
wonted energy, “ you got that idea from that de- 
testable Chatterton, and it is all nonsense. ‘ The 
way to friendship’s gone/ indeed ! What has be- 
come of Mrs. DeLaneey? What came between 
you?” 

Mrs. Carter laughed at the old lady’s vehemence. 
“ Mrs. DeLaneey and I wanted to start a day- 
nursery, where poor working-women could leave 
their children while they were out at work ; of 
course, at such places, the children are only kept 
during the day, and the mothers call for them at 


37 


night; well, I wanted to put Mrs^ Warner, a poor 
woman with seven children, in charge of the nur- 
sery, and Mrs. DeLancey said Mrs. Warner would 
neglect the other children for her own seven, so she 
wanted to put a woman without any children in 
charge ; as though such a woman would know how 
to care for children ! 

“We had a few words on the subject and 
parted — that’s all.” 

“ And who has charge of the nursery ?” 

“ No one ; it fell to the ground.” 

Mrs. Maitland laughed, “What will you two try 
next? Will it be Socialism, Spiritualism, Atheism, 
Hypnotism, or a new Republic ? Whatever it is, it 
will have to be spelled with a capital, for it is sure 
to be of paramount importance for the time being. 

“ Better go and make up with Mrs. DeLancey 
and start something new ; neither of you can get 
along without the other.” 

“ I wish I could get along without her,” sighed 
Mrs. Carter, “ I wish I could get interested in 
something all by myself; what do you get interested 
in ?” 

“I ? oh, in everything,” said the invalid, cheer- 
ily, “just now I am interested in some birds that 
are building a nest in the eaves of a house across 


3 


38 


the way; they ase only the much despised sparrows, 
but they are so patient and persevering and so de- 
voted to each other. 

“ Then I find an unfailing interest in the coming 
and going of my neighbors ; I know very few of 
them — not even their names, but I weave all kinds 
of romances about them and they are quite uncon- 
scious of the fact that a poor invalid takes note of 
their uprising and their down-sitting, to say noth- 
ing of their back-sliding. 

“ Oh, there is no end of things for me to get in- 
terested in ! There is an old blind beggar who sits 
at the corner all day long, and I watch her and 
wonder how much money she collects, what family 
she has and where she goes at night; sometimes, I 
send her down some nice fruit or some clothing or 
add a mite to her money-box, and she never guesses 
where it all comes from.” 

The lonely, kind-hearted old lady looked 
serenely pleased at the success of her plan of secret 
benevolence. 

“ A few days ago,” she went on, cheerfully, “ I 
grew much interested in a letter that fell in the 
street from a man’s pocket; it was almost dark 
when it happened, so I could not see what kind of 
a man dropped it, but I saw it fall and have been 


39 


wondering ever since who the man was, what his- 
tory he had and what the letter contained.” 

“You might have found out by sending your 
maid down to pick it up,” suggested Mrs. Carter. 

“ Oh, but it might have turned out to he a bill,” 
laughed Mrs. Maitland, “ no, no; I prefer to think 
it might have been a letter from his sweetheart, or 
perhaps from his mother, yes, it might have been 
from his mother, whom he had left in some far-off 
Western town or even in a foreign land; perhaps 
he was from England or France, or even Spain, 
and perhaps the letter was written in Spanish, so 
you see I could not have read it, after all.” 

“ But, don’t you think you are taking a good 
deal for granted ? ” 

The old lady disdained the interruption, she had 
grown quite excited over her narrative ; “ it was 
picked up and thrown down again six times that 
day,” she went on ; “ and each time I was afraid it 
would be carried off, but no one ever took it out of 
the envelope ; then it drifted into the gutter and 
stayed there for two days and then a wind arose 
and carried it up in the air, but after whirling 
around several times, it came down again.” 

“ How relieved you must have been,” interpo- 
lated Mrs. Carter, teasingly. 


40 


“Came down again and stayed in the street, 
in the middle of the street, for two days longer; 
the horses trampled it so that it became quite black 
and, then, one day another wind arose and blew it 
into a sewer, and there it disappeared ; I suppose it 
will go to the river and then to the sea.” 

“ Yes,” laughed Mrs. Carter, “ and, perhaps, it 
will go to France or Spain or wherever it came 
from and the mother will find it.” 

“ You need not laugh at my ideas,” said Mrs. 
Maitland, with pretended severity. 

Mrs. Carter was, in reality, envious of a nature 
that could get interested in the lost letter of a 
stranger and be content to watch birds building a 
nest. 


CHAPTER VII. 

It was a bleak afternoon in October, and Mrs. 
Carter sat in her accustomed place in the invalid's 
cozy room ; in her hand she held a dainty cup of 
tea, from which she was leisurely sipping; on a 
little table near at hand, was a plate of hot tea- 
cakes and a cracker-jar. 


41 


The warmth and brightness and cheer of the 
pretty room contrasted greatly with the dreariness 
of the outside world, as viewed from the windows. 

“ Just before you came in,” Mrs. Maitland was 
saying, “ I sent a cup of tea and some hot cakes 
out to my old beggar on the corner, and you have 
no idea how she enjoyed them.” 

“ I should think so, indeed,” rejoined Mrs. Car- 
ter, “ she, probably, never tasted such tea in all her 
life before. How considerate you are! Not one 
woman in a hundred would think of sharing her 
afternoon tea with a beggar; the rest of us invite 
our so-called friends, who come in their carriages, 
all wrapped in velvet and furs, and then in a few 
days they invite us in return and we go through 
the same thing. 

“ I wish my philanthropy were as sincere as 
yours; mine always takes the form of some big 
enterprise, some society or association, and I fear I 
go into such things to amuse myself and not be- 
cause I really want to do any good.” 

“ Why do you have this craving for amusement? 
Why must you always search for some new excite- 
ment?” asked Mrs. Maitland. 

Mrs. Carter averted her face as she put down her 
teacup, and her answer came slowly, “ Because I 


42 


am not happy, and I try in every way to get up an 
interest in things outside of my own life and — I 
fail — always.” 

The daylight was fading and it had now grown 
quite dusky in the little room, but the firelight 
threw fantastic shadows on the walls and cast a soft 
glow on the peaceful face of the white-haired 
invalid and on the sweet, fair face of the younger 
woman. 

There was a momentary silence and then Mrs. 
Carter got up and seated herself on a stool at Mrs. 
Maitland’s feet; with her hands clasped on her old 
friend’s knees, she began, “ I suppose you are won- 
dering, as you have, doubtless, wondered before, 
why I am not happy, when I have, apparently, 
everything to render me so — a good husband, an 
elegant home, and every comfort that the world can 
afford. Listen, I will tell you what I have never 
told before to any one — the story of my life. ^ 

“ I was born at Hogan’s Corners, a very small 
town in this state; my name, by the way, was 
Dows — Sarah Dows. I was an only child and my 
mother died when I was quite young, so I lived 
with my father, who was in very comfortable cir- 
cumstances. I was raised in luxury ; every whim 
was gratified. One of our neighbors was a young 


43 


man named Sidney Wilson, and he, too, was accus- 
tomed to riches, but he was not content to stay at 
home and live on his father’s money, so, as soon as 
he was grown, he went to New York to make his 
own way in the world. 

“ We had been playmates all our lives and were 
deeply in love with one another when he left for 
New York. In a few years he came back for me 
and we were married — ” 

Here the listener gave a start of surprise ; she 
had never dreamed of a previous marriage, but 
Mrs. Carter went on, quickly : 

“ Sidney had a very good position in New York 
and we came here to live ; and, oh, how happy we 
were ! 

“ I wish you could have known Sidney, Mrs. 
Maitland ; he was so good, and brave, and manly, 
and yet so gentle and thoughtful ; he was very, 
very handsome, too ; tall and graceful, with the 
most beautiful blue eyes and hair that was like 
spun sunshine; his hair was the pride of my heart; 
I loved every lock of it. 

u My beautiful Sidney ! how I loved him ; God 
in Heaven, how I loved him ! But perhaps his 
greatest charm lay in his voice ; he sang divinely ; 
his voice was that sweet, clear, flexible tenor that 


44 


holds one spell-bound. I think while he sang to 
me, I w;as nearer Heaven than I will ever be 
again. 

“ I feel that I am telling my story very badly, 
Mrs. Maitland ; do you begin to understand all he 
was to me? How I idolized him? 

“ Remember I had loved him all my life, and his 
love for me was just as great, just as perfect. 

“ And then a child was born to us, the most 
beautiful boy I ever saw, and our cup of happiness 
was running over ; he was not a strong child, but 
so very pretty and bright, and Sidney and I be- 
came his slaves ; the tiny baby hand ruled the 
house. 

“ Sidney’s health began to fail and he had a bad 
cough, but he worked on and would not give in 
to it. 

“ That year there was a financial crisis and both 
Sidney’s father and mine failed ; in six months 
they were both dead ; being old men they were 
unable to begin life over again, and the anxiety 
and failure killed them. 

“ So there was no one to whom we could turn 
when we needed help. 

“ Sidney’s health grew worse and sometimes he 
had to stay in bed for days, but his employers, Vail 


45 


and Carter, were very kind and kept his place open 
for him; and he struggled bravely on but he had 
to give up, at last, and let his position be given to 
some one else. 

u And I was powerless to save him ! Day by 
day I saw him decline; saw his cheeks grow 
hollow and the fatal hectic flush fasten itself upon 
them ; heard the song die upon his lips, merged 
into that awful cough ; I saw his steps grow lan- 
guid and his strong hand grow weak ; all this I 
saw and did not go mad ! 

* e And then another trouble came and took its 
seat by our fireside — poverty ! Little by little our 
savings dwindled, and there was no money coming 
in ; we had no one to help us and credit does not 
last long in a great city ; and, remember, we had 
both been reared in luxury ; the poverty of those 
who have been utter strangers to it is far, far worse 
than the poverty of those who have walked hand in 
hand with it all their lives. 

“ As the winter dragged on, we grew very, very 
poor, and this added to the sufferings of my poor 
Sidney, though, God knows, I did mv best to keep 
the knowledge from him, and he never did know 
the worst. 


46 


“ I pawned or sold my jewels and all my fine 
clothes to buy coal and provisions, though Sidney 
never knew that. Sometimes he would ask why I 
never wore my pretty things any more ; he always 
liked me to be well dressed. We gave up our 
house, the dear little home in which we had been 
so happy, and lived in two rooms. 

“ The only pleasure left to us was our baby ; he 
was well and full of life and fun, and often glad- 
dened our sad hearts. 

“Then, at last, I came to the end of my re- 
sources; every jewel was gone, the furniture was 
all mortgaged, our credit was quite gone, and we 
had neither food nor fuel. 

“ Of course, I had discharged the servants long 
ago, and I could not seek work myself, for there 
was no one to care for husband and baby. 

“We were proud, very proud, and we would not 
have borrowed money with no chance of repaying 
it ; we had kept our troubles to ourselves, so that 
even the few friends we possessed, had no idea of 
our dire necessity. 

“ On the day of which I have been speaking, the 
day when there was nothing left, I dreaded to stay 
in my dying husband’s room, fearing lest his loving 
eyes would read the utter misery in my face. 


47 


u So I walked up and down in the next room, up 
and down in the cold, for the last bucket of coal 
was burning cheerily away in Sidney’s room, and 
as I walked I could hear him singing to the baby, 
the baby who loved the sweet tenor voice almost as 
dearly as I did. 

“ He began to sing, ( Jesus, Lover of my Soul, 
Let me to Thy bosom fly/ and I could bear no 
more. 

“ I put on my bonnet and hurried down to the 
office of Vail and Carter, many long blocks away. 
I was mad with dread. Sidney would never allow 
me to ask any one for money, having no security 
to offer. Several times I had suggested that we 
ask Dwight Carter to advance us a little money, to 
be repaid when Sidney was again able to take a 
position. 

u Dwight Carter had always been kind to Sidney 
while Sidney was in his employ, but Sidney would 
not let me ask for money ; he did not know what 
a desperate struggle I was having to make ends 
meet. 

“ When, on that eventful day, I reached Dwight’s 
office, he was not there and I sat down to wait for 
him. 

u The senior partner, Mr. Vail, was in the office, 
writing; he knew me, as I had sometimes been 


48 


there to see Sidney, and he now offered me a chair 
and speedily forgot all about me. He was a man 
of about fifty years ; a prosperous man and a very 
hard, grasping one; he had never been known to 
give away a cent in his life, bo I dared not ask him 
to- lend me money without security. 

“ I waited a long time for Dwight Carter, think- 
ing all the time of the dear ones I had left at 
home. 

“ There was no food in the house and it was 
almost dinner time; the coal was all gone, too, and 
I grew almost frantic thinking how cold the room 
would be when that fire burned down and could 
not be replenished. 

“ I was growing desperate ; my hands grew cold 
and my brain was on fire; to think of my husband 
and child being without fire or food ! 

“ At last, Mr. Vail began putting up his papers, 
preparatory to going to dinner; I tried several 
times to gather courage to ask him to help me, but, 
whenever I looked at his hard, stern face, I shrank 
back in my chair. 

“ Presently, he went into the outer office for his 
overcoat and the instant he disappeared, I sprang 
up, opened the money drawer and grabbed a ten- 
dollar bill. Yes, I did, Mrs. Maitland, I stole it; 


49 


didn’t I tell you I was mad with dread of the 
future ? 

“ It was done on the impulse of the moment, and 
when Mr. Vail returned, I was still standing, with 
the money crushed in my hand, but he did not 
see it. 

. “ Are you going now, Mrs. Wilson ?” he asked, 
suggestively. “ I do not know when Mr. Carter 
will be in.” 

Then, seeing he wished to lock up the office, I 
said I would not wait any longer, and left. I went 
straightway to buy coal and food, then with my 
arms laden with good, nourishing food for Sidney, 
I fairly ran home. 

“ Sidney was sitting where I had left him, in the 
big arm-chair by the fire, with the baby in his 
arms. 

u I hurried in with my packages, calling out, 
‘Oh, Sidney, I have something so nice for your 
dinner ! ’ 

“ He made no answer, and I thought both he 
and the baby had fallen asleep. I tip-toed up to 
them; the baby was asleep but Sidney — oh, my 
Sidney was dead ! 

“Mrs. Maitland, do you understand? Dead — 
quite dead ! ” 


50 


CHAPTER VIII. 

Mrs. Carter had begun her story quite determined 
not to break down during its recital, but she gave 
way completely now, and with her head in Mrs. 
Maitland’s lap, sobbed and cried as she had not 
cried for years. 

Mrs. Maitland was crying, too, as she softly 
stroked the hair of the grief-stricken woman ; 
there was nothing she could say, no word of com- 
fort for such an utterly wrecked life. 

Presently Mrs. Carter regained her voice and 
went on. 

“ But that was not all, for that night, that 
very night, my baby took croup and died ; think 
of it ! He had been subject to croup always, and in 
the excitement following Sidney’s death, he had 
gotten into a cold room and taken cold, and croup 
kills so quickly. 

“ That night I sent a note to Dwight Carter, en- 
closing four dollars, the money that remained of 
the ten-dollar bill. I told him just how and why 


51 


I had taken it and that it had not profited me any- 
thing, for my husband and child were both dead. 

“ Dwight came at once to our house, and in his 
kindly, unobtrusive way, took charge of every- 
thing ; he paid all the funeral expenses, saying I 
should repay him when I chose. 

“ He reproached me for not having let him know 
what straits we were in, but insisted that I was not 
one whit to blame for taking the money from the 
office, as he would certainly have given it to me, if 
he had been there ; he was very kind and consider- 
ate — but you know Dwight. 

“We buried Sidney and the baby just as they 
had died, or as Sidney had died — the baby in his 
arms ; and all that dreadful day and for many days 
after, there rang in my ears perpetually, ‘ The 
wages of sin is death — the wages of sin is death/ I 
had received the wages of my sin very promptly. 

“Yes, my husband and child were dead and I 
lived on ; how, I scarcely know. 

“ There was nothing to prevent me from work- 
ing now, and Dwight got me some writing to do, 
and so I lived for two years, and then Dwight 
came, one day, and asked me to be his wife ; he 
loved me dearly, he said, and if I could bring 
myself to marry him, he would try to make me love 


52 


him. He was very, very good and generous, and 
tried so hard to make me feel that I was not under 
any obligation to him, but, somehow, I felt that I 
was ; I had paid back the money long ago, but 
could not overcome the sense of indebtedness, and 
now felt that I ought to marry him if that would 
make him happy. I knew it could bring no joy to 
me, but it seemed to make no difference what I did 
with my blighted life, and, since* Dwight wanted it, 
why, let him have it. 

“ And in that way I came to marry him. He 
tried very hard at first to make me love him, and I 
think I tried, too, but somehow Sidney’s dear face 
was always before me and no other man could touch 
my heart. 

“ I think Dwight realized this at last, and find- 
ing that his attentions and caresses only worried 
me, because I could not return them, he gave up 
and we drifted further and further apart, and now 
we go our separate ways and have but little in 
common ; even Chatterton is more sympathetic and 
companionable than Dwight.” 

Here all Mrs. Maitland’s fears were aroused 
again. She knew that Dwight was a thoroughly 
good and conscientious man and that Chatterton 
was not. 


53 


Chatterton was a scoffer, an unbeliever, a man 
who had seen life and had wearied of it; a man 
who had been loved by many women and who had 
broken their hearts by his cool indifference. This 
much she had learned of him through others. 

Was he to be allowed to teach his brother’s wife 
to harden her heart against her husband ? To instill 
into her mind his horrid cynicism? To dispel all 
her allusions as to possible happiness ? To kill her 
faith in God and man ? Not if she had power to 
save ! 

But what could an invalid do — a helpless old 
woman bound to her chair? Her mind was busy 
as she sat caressing Mrs. Carter’s pretty hair. 

When Mrs. Carter rose to go, Mrs. Maitland • 
said to her : 

“ I should like to meet Chatterton, my dear, will 
you tell him so, please, and ask him to come to see 
his mother’s old friend ? ” 

Mrs. Carter was puzzled. 

“You mean Dwight, don’t you, Mrs. Mait- 
land ? ” 

“ No, I mean Chatterton.” 

“ Oh, very well ; I’ll bring him the next time I 
come.” 


4 


54 


“No,” persisted the old lady, “I want to see 
him alone ; tell him to come by himself.” 

“Very well; he will come,” said Mrs. Carter, 
smiling a little at the old lady’s whim. 


CHAPTER IX. 

A few days later Chatterton Carter’s card was 
carried up to Mrs. Maitland and she prepared for 
the fray ; she was very much prejudiced against 
him and was determined to show him no mercy, so 
when he appeared before her, his welcome was de- 
cidedly frigid. 

“ So you are Chatterton Carter ! You don’t look 
at all like your mother.” 

“ Do I not ? ” he answered in his melodious, well- 
bred voice, “ I am very sorry for your disappoint- 
ment.” 

“ Sit there where I can see you,” went on the 
old lady, sharply, and Chatterton obediently seated 
himself where the light fell full upon his face. 

In spite of herself, Mrs. Maitland began to feel 
nervous. How was she to cope with this elegant 
cosmopolite? While making a few perfunctory re- 


55 


marks, she looked at him, steadily, and he bore the 
scrutiny, unflinchingly. One of the many women 
who had loved him had once said of him that he 
had the frame of a gladiator and the face of a god ; 
some such thought now came into Mrs. Maitland’s 
head ; he was, without doubt, wonderfully hand- 
some, with his dark, unsmiling eyes and rather 
cruel-looking mouth ; a man whose broad shoul- 
ders and six feet two would render him conspicu- 
ous anywhere. Presently Mrs. Maitland pulled 
herself together and began the matter in hand. 

“ I sent for you, Chatterton Carter, to give you 
a lecture.” 

He smiled, amusedly ; he had not been “ lec- 
tured ” for thirty years. 

“ I was your mother’s oldest and best friend, and 
I loved her as a sister ; that is my excuse for what 
I am about to say. I do not like the influence you 
are exerting over your sister-in-law, Dwight’s wife. 
You are destroying her belief and teaching her 
to harden her heart against all things human ; she 
came here, a few days ago, and, for the first time, 
told me her story ; it is a very sad one.” 

Chatterton raised his hand in protest. “ Don’t 
tell me, please ; she has never told me and I don’t 
wish to hear it.” 


56 


“ You were not going to hear it,” said the old 
lady, sharply ; “ do you suppose I would betray 
her confidence ? No, I was only going to say that 
the way in which she told that history showed me 
how very tender and loving a heart she has, and I 
mean that Dwight — Dwight, her husband , you 
understand, shall, some day, gain her deepest affec- 
tion. 

“ You know and I know that thus far he has 
failed ; she is grateful to him and fond of him, but 
her heart is not with him ; if her heart is softened, 
perhaps he might win his way in, but she has let 
it grow hard and indifferent and you are making it 
worse, both by precept and example.” 

“Am I my brother’s keeper?” quoted Chatter- 
ton, quietly. 

This threw the old lady into quite a temper. 

“Yes, yes,” she cried, vehemently, “ten thous- 
and times yes ; how dare you ask the question of 
Cain? You are the oldest, the strongest, the most 
influential ; your will-power is unlimited ; you can 
accomplish anything, and, instead of hindering, you 
must help your brother to soften his wife’s heart. 

“ It can be softened ; I saw that the other day, 
and Chatterton Carter, I tell you, it must be and 
you must stop teaching her to be indifferent to 


57 


everything. Remember, Dwight is your brother, 
your only brother.” 

Chatterton had listened to this rebuke in perfect 
silence ; now, however, he leaned forward and took 
the conversation into his own hands. 

“ My brother, ah, yes; do you remember, Mrs. 
Maitland, when Dwight and I were boys, what 
inseparable brothers we were ? 

“ A^d your boy, too, your little Clarence, he was 
like another brother, and what a jolly little chap 
he was ! He used to let me fly his kite, sometimes, 
and once he gave me a top ; I treasured it for years. 
I often think of the day he broke his arm, fall- 
ing out of an apple-tree, and how bravely he bore 
the suffering. What apple-trees those were — three 
of them — right by the gate ! 

“ And, oh, Mrs. Maitland, think of the summer 
we all spent at that old farm-house in Connecticut ! 
How happy we w«. re ! We boys never grew tired 
of riding the horses and fishing in the pond.” 

“ Yes, yes,” interrupted the invalid/eagerly, her 
eyes shining with the pleasure of the old memo- 
ries, “ and in the evening your father and my hus- 
band would come out from the city and then such 
delightful times as we had ! ” 


58 


“ Yes, and my mother played on the piano, while 
you and Mr. Maitland and my father sang.” 

Theie were tears in Mrs. Maitland’s eyes, but 
she was smiling still. She began to think Chatter- 
ton did look a little like his mother, after all. 

“ And, sometimes, mother wore a red dress, do 
you recollect that dress? I suppose it would be 
called a ‘ gown 9 now, but she called it a ( dress,’ 
and I think it was the prettiest dress I ever saw.” 

“ It was beautiful,” assented the invalid. 

“ And the Fourth of July,” went on Chatterton, 
“ do you remember that Fourth of July? We had 
a picnic in the woods and you made the most deli- 
cious ginger-snaps to take along; oh, those ginger- 
snaps ! I never tasted anything half as good.” 

Here the old lady beamed with delight. 

“ And we had fire -crackers,” continued Chatter- 
ton, “ and your little Amy caught her dress on 
fire.” 

Amy had been dead for twenty years, Clarence 
and Mr. Maitland for almost as long, and this 
kindly remembrance of them warmed the lonely 
old heart. 

“ Yes, and you caught her and put out the fire 
with your hands and got fearfully burned — or was 
it Dwight did that ? ” 


59 


“ I suspect it was Dwight, and that reminds me 
that Dwight will be expecting me home to dinner, 
so I must say good-bye, and thank you so much for 
remembering me,” said Chatterton. 

And when he bent and kissed the delicate old 
hand, with courtly grace, the old lady patted his 
arm, told him to be a good boy, and let him go. 
And Chatterton, as he lighted a cigar in the street, 
and sauntered homeward, reflected that a good 
memory was not a bad thing to have. 

It was not until the following day that Mrs. 
Maitland remembered that she had extracted no 
promises from Chatterton Carter as to his future 
conduct in regard to his brothers wife. 

He had made no defense, no explanation, but 
with consummate skill had turned the subject, had 
brought up old days until he had charmed her quite 
out of herself; had made her utterly forget her 
object in sending for him ; in fact had just twisted 
her around his little finger and had promised — 
nothing ! 

She smiled a little at her own discomfiture. 

“ I have listened to the voice of the charmer,” 
she said to herself. 


60 


CHAPTER X. 

When Chatterton reached home, he found Mrs. 
Carter seated by the drawing-room fire; she looked 
up as he entered. 

“ Well, what did Mrs. Maitland want with you ?” 
she questioned. 

“ To discuss the question of Cain,” he answered. 

She did not understand him, but then no one 
ever did quite understand Chatterton. 

Just then the maid ushered in a guest, Mrs. Can- 
ning, and Chatterton, being unable to escape, had 
to endure the call. This Mrs. Canning prided her- 
self on being an “ advanced ” woman ; she scorned 
the woman who loved her own home, despised all 
men and all children ; she was almost fifty and 
dressed as gaily as a girl of sixteen ; she affected 
literature and the arts and knew but little of either ; 
she was Chatterton’s pet abomination ; w r hen her 
call was at an end and Mrs. Carter returned to the 
room, Chatterton greeted her with : 

“ My beautiful, if that is a specimen of the ‘ ad- 
vanced’ woman, then I beg — I implore you — take 


61 


a lesson from the craw* fish ! She is awful, simply 
awful; nothing else expresses it, and — her clothes — 
why I heard them coming down the street, I swear 
I did ! ” 

“ Chatterton,” remonstrated Mrs. Carter, “ re- 
member she was my guest.” 

“ Yes,” answered the incorrigible, calmly, “ of 
course that ties your tongue ; too bad, isn’t it? But 
she didn’t come to see me, at least, I hope not. 
Well, well, it takes all sorts to make up a world, 
but sometimes ‘ the drift of the Maker is dark.’ 
How she did rant ! She didn’t make the world, 
why should she feel so burdened with the responsi- 
bility of it? Why cannot she amuse herself build- 
ing houses of shells and sand ? Surely we all have 
shells and sand. I wonder why a woman cannot 
take things quietly and follow Epictetus. ‘ Re- 
member that in life you ought to behave as at a 
banquet. Suppose that something is carried round 
and is opposite to you ; stretch out your hand and 
take a portion with decency. Suppose that it passes 
by you ; do not detaip it. Suppose that it has not 
yet come to you ; do not send your desire forward 
to it, but wait till it is opposite to you.’ 

“Or, if a woman cannot be philosophical, she 
might, at least, sit down and play with her gold 


62 


thimble, and ‘he a little lady/ as the old nurses 
used to say (good heavens! the children of the 
next generation don’t know what that means!) 
but then if a woman like this Mrs. Canning did sit 
down, she would be sure to sit on a handful of 
thorns ! ” 

Just at this moment, Mrs. DeLancey fluttered in ; 
she and Mrs. Carter had almost forgotten the epi- 
sode of the day nursery, and were as good friends 
as ever. 

“ May I stay to dinner, Sara ? Do say ‘ yes ; 9 
that’s a dear, for I told Mr. DeLancey I would 
dine here and it would be so flat to have to go 
home again without any dinner.” 

“ Of course you may stay,” said Mrs. Carter, 
hospitably, helping her off with her bonnet. 

Mrs. DeLancey was a pretty little woman with 
big, dark eyes and a mass of fluffy, yellow hair, 
which had been brown before blondining came 
into vogue. She dressed in the height of fashion, 
and the most important person on earth, to her, 
was her dressmaker. She had an inexhaustible 
fund of vivacity, and a heed-not-tomorrow spirit 
that led her into a great variety of amusements. 
She had married, for his money, a man old enough 
to have been her father. He was a widower with 


63 


one child when she married him ; this child, Ara- 
bella, was now a lanky, uninteresting girl of four- 
teen, who was seldom seen and never heard in her 
step-mother’s drawing-rooms. 

Mr. DeLancey possessed a serene patience which 
enabled him to watch his wife with quiet amuse- 
ment while she made use of her right to “ life, lib- 
erty, and the pursuit of happiness.” 

He never accompanied her into society, to which 
she was devoted, but spent his evenings at home 
with his newspapers and Arabella. 

It was a source of wonder to many people, how 
such an intimacy as existed between Mrs. Carter 
and Mrs. DeLancey ever came into being. 

They had met soon after Mrs. Carter’s marriage 
to Dwight, and in her determination to forget the 
sad past and get what enjoyment she could out of 
existence, Mrs. Carter had taken Mrs. DeLancey 
as “ guide, philosopher and friend,” hoping that 
she, too, would find in the gay life of a society 
woman, solace for a loveless marriage. Mrs. De- 
Lancey had succeeded, but she did not; she 
quickly wearied of each new fancy and took up 
something else, and there was ever an infinite 
yearning and hunger at her heart for the home and 
husband and child she had lost. 


64 


Mrs. DeLancey had a new plan in her head, the 
evening she dined with the Carters, and she un- 
folded it at the table. 

“ I am going South, Sara,” she said, “ and I 
want you to go, too ; I am going to Chattanooga, 
or rather to Lookout Mountain ; the new hotel, the 
Lookout Inn (isn’t that a remarkable name?), has 
just opened for the season and I am going there ; 
there will be just a small party of us — Mrs. Lane 
and her daughter, Mrs. Mowbray, Miss Voie, Miss 
Willoughby and you and I — seven of us; you will 
go, wont you, Sara? Say ‘yes.’” 

“ I suppose I might as well,” answered Mrs. 
Carter, listlessly. 

“ Why, yes,” chimed in Dwight, who was always 
anxious that she should enjoy herself, “you had 
better go, dear, it will be a rest and change for you 
and Lookout Mountain is an ideal place. But are 
there no men in your party, Mrs. DeLancey? You 
should have a man or two to look after you and 
your luggage.” 

“Not the ghost of a man have we; why not you, 
Mr. Carter?” 

“ Dwight looked, rather wistfully, across the 
table at his wife; one word from her, signifying a 
desire for his company, and he would have left 


65 


everything and gone with her, but she was toying 
with her spoon and did not even look up, so he 
answered Mrs. DeLancey : 

“ I fear I cannot spare the time, but perhaps 
Chatterton might go ; I would rather there was a 
man in the party.” 

“ Should be delighted,” said Chatterton, “ that is 
if there are not too many pug dogs and children ; 
how many children are going, Mrs. DeLancey ?” 

“Not one,” emphatically. 

“ Then I will certainly go ; I only asked because 
I have a rooted aversion to being covered with 
chewing-gum and candy on the train and to carry- 
ing 1 a cup of cold water ’ every three minutes.” 

“And Arabella?” questioned Mrs. Carter. 

“ Stays at home,” answered Arabella’s step- 
mother, promptly. 

So it was arranged that they were to start in a 
few days, and Chatterton was to take charge of the 
party. 

It had never occurred to Dwight to be jealous 
of Chatterton ; he knew only too well that his 
wife’s heart was with the husband who had died 
and believed that since he had failed in his earnest 
and loving attempt to win her love, no other man 
could do so, even though he tried, and he trusted 


66 


Chatterton too implicitly to think that he would 
try. And to the influence which Chatterton, un- 
doubtedly, possessed over her, he attributed no 
importance, for he could not see that Chatterton’s 
hard and cynical views of life could affect her ; he 
knew nothing of the struggle the invalid, Mrs. 
Maitland, was making in his behalf agaiust Chat- 
terton’s influence. 

The old lady had discovered that Mrs. Carter’s 
heart was not quite as dead to affection as she tried 
to make it, and believed that by using every means 
to rouse her softer, gentler emotions, she might be 
brought, in time, to love Dwight very dearly. 

So the patient, loving invalid was trying to 
soften Mrs. Carter’s heart, believing she might 
thereby be rendered happy once more, and, at the 
same time, the man of the world, the cynic was 
trying his best to harden Mrs. Carter’s heart, hon- 
estly believing that she would suffer less if her 
emotions were deadened to a much greater extent 
than they had already been by her great sufferings, 
the nature of which he could only divine. 


67 


CHAPTER XI. 

After dinner they all went to the drawing-room. 

“Oh, how lovely this room is in the fire-light, ” 
exclaimed Mrs. DeLancey; don’t have lights, Sara ; 
let’s just have the fire and let it go at that.” 

Mrs. Carter assented and they all seated them- 
selves by the fire — all except Dwight, who kept 
fidgeting about the room. Mrs. DeLancey noticed 
him, presently, and said : 

“If you are waiting under the idea that you will 
be called upon to escort me home, Mr. Carter, you 
may banish the thought and go your ways in peace 
and quietness, for I am marked ‘ to be left till 
called for;’ I ordered my Jehu to bring the car- 
riage for me directly after dinner ; I sent him to 
poor, dear Mrs. Young’s funeral, this afternoon; it 
was not necessary for me to go, just so my carriage 
put in an appearance, and, when the blinds are 
down, no one can tell whether I am inside or not 
and I do so dislike funerals.” 

Just then Mrs. DeLancey’s carriage was an- 
nounced and she took her departure, Dwight escort- 


68 


ing her to the carriage and then going on to his 
club. 

Mrs. Carter and Chatterton returned to the draw- 
ing room, where Mrs. Carter resumed her seat by 
the fire and Chatterton went to the piano ; he began 
to sing, softly playing his own accompaniment, and 
as the sweet tenor voice rose and fell, Mrs. Carter 
fell to dreaming of that other voice to which she 
had so loved to listen, the voice of Sidney Wilson, 
silenced so long ago. His voice had so far excelled 
that of Chatterton Carter, and yet one reminded 
her of the other. 

Back, back went her thoughts to the days of her 
early womanhood — the days when Sidney Wilson 
had sung her heart away. 

■ She was walking, once more, by the river which 
flowed through her native town, and by her side 
walked Sidney — Sidney her lover, who, on the 
morrow, was going away to make a fortune for 
them both. He would come back, some day, and 
they would be married, but still, it was hard to 
part with him now. 

How beautiful the river was ! She could see it 
crushing itself in soft, white foam against the bank. 
How the water gleamed in the moonlight ! 


69 


It was Chatterton who was singing so sweetly; — 

“ We sat by the river, you and I, 

In the sweet summer-time, long ago/’ 

but to her it seemed to be Sidney — 

“ ’Tis years since we parted, you and I, 

In the sweet summer-time, long ago, 

And I smile as I pass the river by, 

And gaze into its shadowed depths below.” 

How swiftly the river flowed and what a fair and 
beautiful thing the world seemed, but her heart 
was heavy, for Sidney was going away ! 

Chatterton now struck into a quaint, old ballad, 
and again the song carried her backwards ; the 
refrain ringing in her ears was — 

“ So you see that they needn’t come wooing to me, 

For my heart, my heart is over the sea.” 

Ah, yes, her heart was with Sidney — not “ over 
the sea,” but (there are prosaic days) in New York 
where he was carving out his fortune. 

And then the night he came home again — and 
soon after came their wedding-day ; oh, that wed- 
ding-day ! thank God for that one day of perfect, 
perfect happiness ! 

5 


70 


Then they had taken up their lives together in 
New York, and had been so happy and prosperous 
and had loved each other so and had thought noth- 
ing was needed to enhance their happiness, but 
when the baby came, they wondered how they had 
ever been happy without him. How bright and 
sweet he was ! and oh, the tiny hands and feet and 
the rosy mouth and the eyes of heaven’s own blue ! 
And in the long winter evenings, she sat with the 
baby in her arms, while Sidney sang to them both ; 
yes, surely it was in this very room and over in the 
corner was the dainty cradle, waiting for its sleepy 
little occupant, and the fire light brightened the 
part of the room where she sat and threw shadows 
in the corners and — listen ! Sidney was singing the 
baby to sleep — 

“ Rock-a-bye, baby, on the tree-top, 

When the wind blows, the cradle will rock.” 

What a tender voice he had ! 

But the scene shifted, and trouble had come upon 
the happy home. 

Sidney’s health had failed and he had had to give 
up work and their money was running low, but she 
must not let Sidney know how low, for he was 
worried enough, already. 


71 


Then the money gave out altogether, and all the 
pretty luxuries, all the bright dresses and dainty 
jewels had gone, but Sidney did not know that ; 
thank God, he never knew ! They were heavily in 
debt, and — Sidney was dying now, yes, she could 
no longer blind her eyes to that fact ; he was dying 
by inches, drifting out of life ; but she must be 
brave and wear a cheerful face before him. Some- 
times she would run into the other room and shut 
the door and stand there for five or ten minutes, 
clinching her hands and setting her teeth hard to- 
gether, telling herself, fiercely, “ you must not give 
way ; you shall not ; he must not be grieved ; bear 
up a little longer, it will be only for a little longer 
and then — then you may wail and cry all the rest of 
your life — always — for years and years \” 

And then the day came when all resources were 
at an end, and she had walked up and down in that 
cold room, mad with grief and dread, and she 
could hear Sidney singing in the next room, and, 
oh, how changed that divine voice was ! so weak 
and so often interrupted by that awful, awful cough 
which was killing him ! But he was so brave and 
hopeful, and he was singing the baby to sleep, as 
the baby lay in his arms ; and he did not know 
that it was his own death-song he was singing — 


72 


how sweet it was ; God in Heaven ! was there ever 
another voice so sweet ! 

“ Jesus, Lover of my Soul, 

Let me to Thy bosom fly.” 

Somehow, Chatterton had chanced on this old 
hymn, which he had not sung for years, and, ot 
course, he little dreamed of the tragedy it was re- 
calling in the mind of his listener — 

“ Other refuge have I none ; 

Hangs my helpless soul on Thee ; 

Leave, ah ! leave me not alone, 

Still support and comfort me.” 

Sidney was singing and Sidney was dying; he 
was dying with that song on his lips ; one minute 
more and the song would cease — forever ! She 
could bear it no longer ! She made a mad rush 
towards the door, but paused an instant behind 
Chatterton, and bending his head backwards, kissed 
him passionately on the forehead, and fled from the 
room. Chatterton’s hands fell, with a crash, on 
the keys. 

“ God ! ” was all he said. 

It may have been a curse ; perhaps it was a 
prayer, but his lips were white, and the singer sang 
no more. 


73 


CHAPTER XII. 

In a few days the party of pleasure-seekers 
started southward. Mrs. DeLancey said it was a 
very unique party, inasmuch as it included neither 
children nor lovers, but it was a very merry one, 
and Chatterton proved himself quite competent to 
look after the numerous belongings of seven 
women. The roses were blooming in Chattanooga 
when they reached there, and the weather was per- 
fect. In New York they had been hovering over 
their fires, but here they were plunged into sum- 
mer. 

Several of the party, including Chatterton, had 
been on Lookout Mountain before, but to Mrs. 
Carter and Mrs. DeLancey it was an unexpected 
region and they took a keen delight in it. 

They established themselves at the Lookout Inn, 
a large and elegant hotel, and from there started 
out every morning on exploring expeditions, some- 
times the whole party together, and again dividing 
into groups of two or three ; there were many peo- 
ple at the hotel, indeed all the hotels were crowded, 


74 


and the sight-seeing parties returned at night to 
enjoy music, dancing and card-playing. 

There is quite a little village on the mountain - 
top — four hotels, a postoffice, numerous cottages, 
three or four photographers’ studios, a museum 
where battle relics are on exhibition and several 
stores where similar articles are sold; there are also 
three railways, which make a trip down the moun- 
tain to Chattanooga an easy matter. 

From one side you look down on the little town 
of St. Elmo, almost in the shadow of the giant 
mountain, while a little further off lies Chattanooga 
with its hospitable people, its beautiful churches, 
and its steep, narrow streets, up which the little 
donkeys plod with their comical little carts and 
their old-time negro drivers. 

From another side of the mountain you look 
down on the Chickamauga battle-field which the 
government has transformed into a park ; beyond 
lies Missionary Ridge. Hundreds of miles away 
you can see the Carolina hills ; in fact, you can see 
into seven States from the top of Lookout Moun- 
tain, though, as they are not blue and yellow as on 
the maps, it is a little difficult to define their 
boundary lines. 


75 


From the point of the mountain you look down 
on the beautiful Tennessee River, as it winds about, 
leaving an island in the shape of a moccasin — the 
famous Moccasin Bend ; down near the river, the 
all-pervading railway runs, but the trains, viewed 
from the mountain-top, look very small and insig- 
nificant. 

This part of the mountain, “ The Point,’’ is the 
most beautiful and picturesque spot imaginable ; 
the view is magnificent, the cliffs are perfectly per- 
pendicular and the valley of the Tennessee River 
lies hundreds of feet below. 

On the edge of these perpendicular rocks is a 
hotel, on all four sides of which are broad verandas ; 
one of them is directly over the valley and seems 
to be hung in mid-air. 

At the time of which I write there were held at 
this hotel nightly hops, which were frequently 
attended by parties from the larger and handsomer 
hotel, the Lookout Inn. 

A few days after Mrs. DeLancey and her party 
reached Lookout Mountain, there was another ar- 
rival from New York, Mr. Willett Wendell. He 
was a young bachelor whose brains were not a very 
great burden to him, but he seemed to possess some 
fascination for Mrs. DeLancey. He had followed 


76 


her about in New York for two seasons, and was 
always to be seen at whatever ball or other func- 
tion she attended. When, therefore, lie appeared 
on Lookout Mountain, no one was in the least sur- 
prised, but Mrs. Carter was displeased ; it seemed 
to her as though the whole trip had been gotten up 
to enable Mrs. DeLancey and her admirer to roam 
about together with greater freedom than could be 
had in New York. She even went so far as to speak 
to Mrs. DeLancey about it. 

“ Did you know, when you got up this party 
to come South, that Mr. Wendell would follow 
you?” 

Mrs. DeLancey looked confused for a moment, 
but quickly recovered herself. 

“ Well, we’ll let it go at that,” she answered, 
lightly, and danced out of the room before Mrs. 
Carter could question her further. 

As the days passed, the attentions of Mr. Wen- 
dell to the gay little matron grew more and more 
marked ; they were constantly together, roaming 
about through the woods all day and dancing to- 
gether in the evening. 

Mrs. Carter grew very much worried, though 
Chatterton tried to laugh her out of her anxiety ; 
with his wide knowledge of the world, he divined 


77 


what the end would be and endeavored to get his 
sister-in-law to accept the inevitable, philosoph- 
ically. 

“ Don’t worry about Mrs. DeLancey, my beauti- 
ful/’ he would say, “ she is only working out her 
destiny ; there is no use trying to interfere ; old 
DeLancey is old enough to look out for himself ; 
what is it to you? Haven’t I told you that you are 
only ‘a looker-on in Vienna?’ 

“ Watch them play out their little act ; it won’t be 
a long one and you are not responsible for the 
finale. I find it immensely amusing : can you not 
find it so?” 

To all of which Mrs. Carter would only answer : 

“ I wish I could take your view of it, Chatter- 
ton, but I am only a woman, not a philosopher 
and — I wish her husband were here.” 


78 


CHAPTER XIII. 

One of the most beautiful places on the top ot 
historic Lookout is Sunset Park ; it is at the extreme 
end of the mountain, but the cable road runs out 
there so it is not much of a journey, after all ; just 
at the end of the cable road lies a pretty little 
valley in which there is a hotel for the benefit of 
admirers of Sunset Park. Through this little 
valley runs a small stream of pure, sparkling water, 
spanned by a natural stone bridge, and on one ot 
the cliffs, overlooking the valley is “ The Old Man 
of the Mountain.’ 7 This curious freak of nature is 
perched on the very edge of the cliff and looks as 
though it might topple into the valley at any 
moment ; it is the head of an old man, with wonder- 
fully clear features, carved out of stone and standing 
out in bold relief against the sky. 

Another point of interest in the Park is “ Sunset 
Rock 77 and it is, literally, a “ point, 77 extending 
far out from the edge of the mountain. Sunset Rock 
well deserves its name, for the sunset viewed from 
that rock is a thing to be remembered all one’s life ; 


79 


standing there, one can look upon a vast extent of 
country and see “ Way Down in Dixie.” On this 
rock stands the inevitable photograph gallery, from 
which no picturesque place is free. 

Mrs. DeLancey’s party frequently repaired to 
Sunset Rock to enjoy the magnificent spectacle 
presented there at the setting of the sun. 

One day they took their lunch to the Park and 
spent the entire day there, and just before sunset 
they all gathered on Sunset Rock. 

“ Have you seen ‘ Lover’s Leap?’” asked Mrs. 
DeLancey. 

“No where is it?” said Miss Willoughby. 

“ That is just what I want to know,” was the 
laughing reply, “ I know there must be one, but I 
have failed to find it ; Lookout has its ‘ Garden of 
the Gods ’ all right enough, but where, oh, where is 
‘ Lover’s Leap ?’ Every right-minded resort has 
a 1 Lover’s Leap ; ’ I fear Lookout has failed in its 
duty.” 

“ What’s the matter with this rock ? ” asked one 
of the men of the party. 

(There had been but one man in Mrs. DeLancey’s 
party when it reached Lookout Mountain, but there 
were now eight ! ) 


80 


“That would be a frightful leap,” said Mrs. De- 
Lancey, with a little shudder. 

All this time Mrs. Carter had been standing on 
the extreme edge of the rock, gazing with fascinated 
eyes, into the fearful depths below. 

Chatterton, observing her, drew her gently away. 

“ Come, it is time to go back,” he said. 

There was a hop given at the hotel on the Point, 
that evening, to which nearly all the people from 
the Lookout Inn went. 

Mrs. DeLancey was in one of her gayest moods, 
and with Mr. Willett Wendell in constant attend- 
ance, laughed, chatted, and danced to her heart's 
content. 

But Mrs. Carter was feeling very tired after her 
day in the woods, and, after dancing a few times, 
went out on the veranda with Chatterton ; they 
made the circuit of the four verandas surrounding 
the house, and then stopped on the one overhanging 
the valley; all the people were enjoying the danc- 
ing and the verandas were deserted. 

“ I believe I have the ‘ blues,’ ” said Mrs. Carter, 
“ I have been unaccountably despondent all day : 
look down there at the river, Chatterton; is’nt it 
beautiful with the moonlight on it ? I hardly know 
whether this Tennessee Valley looks best in moon- 


81 


light or in sunlight. Out on Sunset Rock to-day, I 
thought no effect could compare with the sunlight. 

“ Do you know, Chatterton, people sometimes 
want to throw themselves off when they are stand- 
ing on a very high place ? It is a strange idea but 
the temptation is almost irresistible ; I felt it to-day 
on Sunset Rock ; I just wanted to fling myself off.” 

“ Well and why not?” asked Chatterton calmly. 

Mrs Carter drew herself from him, and resting 
her hand on the rail, cried — 

“ Oh but the sin of it ! ” 

“ There is no sin,” said the cynic, “ have I not 
told you that a hundred times before? No action 
is intrinsically bad, a sin is only a sin by public 
agreement. Men make their own laws, it only 
requires a little red sealing-wax and a good deal of 
red tape — and all things that do not conform to 
those laws are called sins, but there is really no 
such thing as a sin.” 

The music of the dance came floating out to 
them through the open windows ; the band was 
playing a Strauss waltz now, and the rhythm of it 
seemed to get into Mrs. Carter’s brain and to throb 
through all her veins. 

Chatterton bent towards her and spoke, eagerly. 


82 


“ You wanted to go over Sunset Rock, to-day; 
why not over this one — now — with me ? Look 
down there, my beautiful ; how quiet it is • 
how peaceful ! and the river — how cool and bright 
it is; let us go down there, dear-— together — and 
get away from all this feverish life ; how restful it 
would be You are tired of this unprofitable thing 
called life — and so am I ; let us end it all — get 
away from it — forever.” 

Mrs. Carter was grasping the railing, but her 
eyes were fixed on the beautiful plain hundreds of 
feet below and the desire to “end it all” was 
strong in her heart. Ah, yes, Chatterton was 
right ! She was weary of life, so very, very weary 
of it; she did so long for death ! She wanted to be 
still and rest and she wanted to be with her dead 
husband, Sidney, her well beloved. 

How the music throbbed ! It was maddening ! 

“ Come, my beautiful,” whispered Chatterton, 
“ it will not hurt you, in the least ; I will hold you 
fast, oh, so fast, so you cannot be hurt ; you will be 
unconscious long before we reach the earth, so it 
will not hurt you — nothing will ever hurt you 
again. 

“ Hid you ever go up in a balloon ? No, of course 
not, so, of course, you never came down. I did ; I 


83 


* 


think I have done most things — but it is the 
coming down that is the best — and this would be 
just as good, though a little quicker, perhaps, but 
it will be like sailing through the air, and the wind 
in our ears will be like music, even sweeter than 
that Strauss waltz — and everything will fade from 
our sight and we will know no more.” 

Mrs. Carter’s eyes were riveted on Chatterton’s 
face now ; his magnetic eyes lured her on, his ten- 
der voice enthralled her, but it was not of Chatter- 
ton she was thinking; to him, personally, she gave 
not one thought ; it was what he was offering her 
that tempted her so sorely — death ! a speedy, pain- 
less death ! 

“ Perhaps they will bury us there where we 
fall,” he went on ; do you think they would? and 
wouldn’t you like to lie within sound of the river? 
Not that we should hear it; oh, no, nothing would 
ever disturb us again! You are not happy, dear, 
and you will never be at peace while you live — 
come then — I will take you with me — to death ! ” 

She started forward and looked up at him with 
eager eyes. 

“To Sidney?” she whispered. 

To Sidney ! What did she mean ? Chatterton 
was still in the dark concerning her life before her 


t 


84 


marriage to Dwight. He had never even heard the 
name of Sidney Wilson. So he thought now that 
she must be jesting and he grew bitterly resentful; 
how could she jest at such a moment ! He felt as 
though she had dashed cold water in his face and 
he almost gasped for breath, then he regained his 
habitual self-command. 

“To Sydney? New South Wales, you mean? 
Well, no, I think your geography is at fault; I 
believe it is China that lies directly beneath us, but 
I did not mean to go quite so far — not all the way 
through.” 

It was her turn to be surprised, now ; she had 
thought him in earnest and he had suddenly turned 
the whole thing into a jest; and had spoken her 
dearly-loved Sidney’s name in mockery. She for- 
got that he had never heard of Sidney. 

She clung to the railing, feeling ready to faint, 
and unable to take her eyes from Chatterton’s face, 
upon which there was a mocking smile. 

“ You are an apt pupil,” he said, coldly. “ I see 
you have learned what I have tried to teach you — 
not to take anything seriously — but I did not 
expect it to recoil upon myself.” 

Just then the music ceased and the dancers 
floated out upon the verandas. Mrs. DeLancey, 


85 


leaning on Mr. Wendell’s arm, came up to Mrs. 
Carter and Chatterton. 

“ Oh, here you are ! I have been wondering 
what had become of you two. And how dramatic 
you look! Are you rehearsing a play?” 

“ Yes,” answered Chatterton, “ I have just been 
playing my part.” 

“ Oh, how interesting ! What is the name of the 
play? and has it ever been played before?” 

“ It is called ‘ The Farce of Life/ and it is being 
played every day. 

“May I have the pleasure of this dance, Mrs. 
DeLancey ? ” 

And, with the lively little matron, Chatterton 
went into the ball-room ; but there was a look on 
his face that was not good to see. 

Mrs. Carter turned to Mr. Wendell when the 
others had left them. 

“ Would you mind taking me to my hotel, Mr. 
Wendell? I am very tired and think I will go 
home.” 


6 


86 


CHAPTER XIV. 

Mrs. Carter had a severe headache the next day 
and stayed in bed ; the ladies came up, at intervals, 
during the day, to sit a few moments in the dark- 
ened room. 

Mrs. DeLancey came at noon, and coaxed Mrs. 
Carter into taking a cup of tea, but she did not 
stay long; she talked a great deal in a jerky, incon- 
sequent way that was very trying to the nerves, 
and, after flitting restlessly about the room, picking 
up little things and dropping them again, finally 
left, much to Mrs. Carter’s relief. 

About six o’clock Mrs. Carter’s headache had 
about worn itself out, and she concluded to dress 
and go down for a little fresh air. But her toilet 
was a hasty one, for, pinned to her pincushion, she 
found a note from Mrs. DeLancey, and this was 
the way it ran : 

“ My Dear Sara : 

“ You will, in all probability, never see me 
again, as I am going away on a night train with 
Mr. Wendell. My husband is a dear, old soul, but 


87 


he is too stupid for me. Do not try to find me, 
because I will never come back. I know you will 
be horrified, but think as kindly of me as you can. 

“ Yours, 

“ Gertrude DeLancey.” 

It was a dreadful shock to Mrs. Carter, and her 
hands trembled so she could scarcely dress, but she 
was ready, at last, and hastened down to the 
secluded corner of the veranda where she was sure 
she should find Chatterton. Nor was she disap- 
pointed ; he rose as she approached, and offered her 
a chair. They had been very angry with each 
other the night before, but Mrs. Carter had forgot- 
ten all that had passed in her bewilderment over 
Mrs. DeLancey’s note, and Chatterton had crushed 
down his anger with an iron hand, just as he 
crushed down every other emotion. 

“I am glad your head is better,” he said, courte- 
ously, “but — heavens! what is the matter? You 
look as though you had seen a ghost.’ ’ 

“ Oh, Chatterton, Chatterton, read this ! ” she 
cried, hysterically. 

Chatterton took the note and read it through, 
deliberately, then slowly folding it — 

“ Well, you are not surprised, are you?” 


88 


“ Surprised ! oh, Chatterton, it is too dreadful ! 
What are we to do ? ” 

“ Let her go,” was the laconic answer. 

Then as Mrs. Carter began to cry, he got up and 
led her from the veranda, across the railway track, 
and down to the cliff ; there he seated her upon a 
rock, while he stood facing her, with his back 
against a tree. 

“Now, what is the use crying about it?” he 
began. “ If Mrs. DeLancey chooses to throw over 
her home and her husband — why — so much the 
better for the home and the husband. Old De- 
Lancey and his charming Clarinda — or is it Ara- 
bella — will be a great deal better off without that 
scatter-brain. She is of no earthly use to them or 
to anyone, for that matter ; she is a mere cumberer 
of the ground ; her life is nothing but frivolity, 
even her philanthropy, on which she so prides her- 
self, is only a form of excitement; she lives in a 
perfect whirl from morning until night and again 
from night until morning.” 

Mrs. Carter winced a little here, for was not her 
own life a counterpart of Mrs. DeLancey V? 

“ She is a vain, foolish, shallow butterfly,” went 
on Chatterton, “ and her going will be a good rid- 


89 


dance to old DeLancey. You have asked me what 
we are to do — I say — f speed the parting guest.’ ” 

“ Oh, no, no ! ” wailed Mrs. Carter ; “ we must 
not let her go.” 

“ But she has gone; “ I saw her take the cable- 
car at two o’clock.” 

“With him?” 

“ No, she went alone ; he is still here ; I saw him 
just now.” 

“ Where are they — what are they — what do you 
think?” 

“ My idea is that she is waiting for him down in 
Chattanooga, and that he will join her to-night and 
take her away. And don’t you see that it is the 
best thing that could possibly happen ? She won’t 
enjoy her life with him, but if she thinks she will — 
why, let her try it ; no life lives forever ; when one 
tires of one kind of life, one should try another ; 
besides—” 

“ Now, Chatterton,” said Mrs. Carter, drying 
her tears and speaking very firmly, “ don’t give me 
any of your cold-blooded philosophy, and don’t you 
dare to mention Epicurus, or any of those old 
fogies ; this elopement must be prevented.” 

“ It would do no good to throw obstacles in the 
way ; they would only carry out their plans at some 


90 


later day ; why not let them go now while we are 
on hand to enjoy the sensation ?” 

“ 1 don’t know what to do/’ said Mrs. Carter, 
ignoring his last speech, “you must stop them, 
Chatterton, will you?” 

Chatterton smiled. 

“ Don’t you think that ‘ will you’ a little super- 
fluous? You have already said I must ” 

She sprang to her feet and looked up at him, 
gratefully. 

“Then I know you will, Chatterton; she has 
already gone and we don’t know where to find her 
in Chattanooga, but you must try to keep him here ; 
don’t let him out of your sight to-night. Can you 
manage it, Chatterton? Can you keep him in 
sight ? ” 

“‘As long as the candle holds out to burn,’” 
said Chatterton. 

They returned to the hotel, and, as the excite- 
ment had caused a return of Mrs. Carter’s head- 
ache, she retired to her room, and Chatterton 
lighted a cigar and while walking to and fro on 
the veranda, laid his plans for the coming cam- 
paign. 

“ There are only two ways by which I can pre- 
vent his going down to Chattanooga to-night — to 


91 


win all his money at cards, or to get him dead 
drunk — better do both, I suppose — wonder how 
much the fellow can drink? I shall have to fix it 
up with the landlord, or he won’t allow such a game 
as I propose playing here to-night.” 


CHAPTER XV. 

So Chatterton ‘ fixed it up’ with the hotel pro- 
prietor, and then, in his leisurely way, sauntered up 
to Willett Wendell. 

“ Like to try a game of poker ? ” he asked, care- 
lessly. 

Wendell turned quickly towards the speaker, his 
face beaming with surprise and pleasure, for Chat- 
terton had been in the habit of snubbing him, un- 
mercifully, and this was the first friendly overture 
made. 

“ Yes, indeed,” he answered, cordially, and the 
two went in together. 

Chatterton played carelessly, at first, having, 
somehow, gotten the impression that Wendell was 
not much of a card player, and he was quite willing 
to let him win a little, at first, to encourage him 


92 


and make him anxious to prolong the game ; but 
when a few hands had been played, Chatterton 
awoke to the fact that the red, white, and blue 
chips were flowing rather too steadily towards his 
adversary. So he straightened up and prepared to 
keep his eyes open; presently, he called for drinks 
and was glad to find that Wendell was not a tem- 
perance man. The game went steadily on ; there 
was no limit and the stakes were very high. Chat- 
terton quickly discovered that Wendell was not 
only a card-player, but an unusually good one ; it 
would be no easy matter to win his money. Men 
drifted in to look on, and every one who came, 
stayed. At the beginning, Wendell had said: 

“ I can play only until ten o’clock ; I have to go 
down to the city, at that time.” 

Chatterton was facing the clock (he had arranged 
that) and long before ten o’clock, had induced 
Wendell to take five or six drinks; the game Avas 
growing interesting, too, and ten o’clock passed. 
But the danger Avas not over yet ; the cable did not 
stop running doAvn the mountain until midnight 
and the electric road, too, A\ T as still open for pas- 
sengers. Wendell might still go, though he were 
late ; he, no doubt, kneAV Avhere to find Mrs. De- 
Lancey at any hour, up to midnight. 


93 


Chatterton calculated that she would not wait 
for Wendell after midnight; if he did not come by 
that time, she would, in all probability, go without 
him : she would be so enraged at his non-appear- 
ance that she would not go to the place which was to 
have been their destination ; perhaps, she would go 
home to New York, but who could tell what such 
a woman would do? He would keep Wendell from 
going with her, simply because his pretty, little 
sister-in-law had asked him to do so. 

Gambling had once been the ruling passion with 
Chatterton, and, although it had become dormant, 
as all his passions had, he found the game with 
Wendell growing exciting. 

Hour after hour passed and the game went on, 
almost in silence ; first one man won and then the 
other; they were evenly matched. 

The men standing about the table were eagerly 
watching the game and the faces of the two players, 
but Chatterton's dark, inscrutable face betrayed 
nothing, and Wendell, too, was too experienced a 
gambler to allow any emotion to be seen in his 
face. 

There was great, though suppressed, excitement 
throughout the room. At one o'clock, Chatterton 


94 


began to win steadily, and Wendell was drinking 
heavily. 

Chatterton drank but little, and did not need 
now to encourage Wendell to drink. 

At three o’clock, after Chatterton had shown his 
hand — a straight club flush, king high — Wendell 
fell heavily forward on the table, and Chatterton 
rose, the winner. Then, with the assistance of 
another man, he carried his drunken adversary to 
his room and put him to bed. He saw a light 
burning in Mrs. Carter’s room as he passed, and 
knowing she would be wakeful and anxious, stopped 
and called to her through the door. 

“Its all right; it is three o’clock and he is still 
here.” 

When he reached his own room and caught sight 
of his haggard face and tired eyes, he smiled, rather 
sardonically, and said to himself : 

“Well, Chatterton, my boy, you have, for the 
first time in all your career, done a hard night’s 
work in the interests of — shall we say morality ? 
At least, we’ll i let it go at that,’ as Mrs. DeLancey 
would say.” 


95 


CHAPTER XVI. 


Chatterton was wakened about six o’clock to re- 
ceive a telegram; lie tore it open and read: 

“ DeLancey died last night ; break it to his wife. 

“D. Carter.” 


Chatterton gave a low whistle. 

“ If this isn’t a plot for a dramatist/’ he said to 
himself. He rose and dressed with his usual delib- 
eration and went down to the veranda to await Mrs. 
Carter’s coming. He had sent her a note, imme- 
diately after he had received the telegram, asking 
her to come down at once, as he wished to speak to 
her before breakfast. 

Early as he was, Mrs. Mowbray was already out, 
inhaling the fresh morning air, and that which he 
dreaded was not long in coming, for almost her 
first words were : 

“ I wonder what has become of Mrs. DeLancey ; 
she went down to Chattanooga yesterday after- 
noon — to do some shopping, I suppose, but she did 
not come back last night?” 


96 


Chatterton answered, promptly : 

“ She has gone to New York; her husband is 
dead/’ 

“ Oh ! ” cried Mrs. Mowbray, “ how very sad ! 
But it is strange she didn’t tell me, for I was on 
the veranda when she went away; but I noticed 
she was greatly excited — poor thing.” 

Greatly to Chatterton’ s relief, Mrs. Mowbray 
went off, at once, to spread the news, and when 
Mrs. Carter appeared, he led her down to the Point 
and there told her of Mr. DeLancey’s death. She 
was greatly shocked, and, feeling certain that Mrs. 
DeLancey must have returned home when the plan 
for elopement failed, tried to imagine her feelings, 
on arriving there, to find her husband dead ; the 
husband she had been on the point of deserting and 
disgracing. She had not gone home repentant, but 
simply because Willett Wendell had failed her. 

“ Tell me about last night, Chatterton,” said 
Mrs. Carter. “ How on earth did you manage to 
keep Mr. Wendell from going?” 

“ Made him drunk as a lord and won all his 
money from him,” Chatterton replied. 

Mrs. Carter laughed, “ Oh, Chatterton, what a 
fin de siecle way ! What would the heroes of the 
days of chivalry have said to that ? ” 


97 


“ In the days of chivalry/’ said Chatterton, 
u Lochinvar attended the bridal-feast of his lady 
fair, and while dancing with her, carried her out, 
and placing her on the horse behind him, fled with 
her, and the whole wedding party followed in hot 
pursuit. Now I, for one, seriously object to ‘ racing 
and chasing ’ at midnight and on horseback, espe- 
cially on the top of a mountain ; my way was the 
easiest.” 

“ Your way was not the sixteenth century *way, 
but that of the nineteenth ; it expressed the true 
spirit of the times.” 

“ Better say spirits or spirituous liquors,” 
amended Chatterton, “and not true but adul- 
terated.” 

“Oh, Chatterton, you will give him back his 
money, won’t you?” 

Chatterton laughed at her simplicity. 

“ He would not let me give it back, but I will let 
him win it back, if you wish, when we all get to 
New York again. Just at present, he is sleeping 
the sleep of the just — or the unjust.” 

“ What are we to tell all the people when they 
miss Mrs. DeLancey?” asked Mrs. Carter, nerv- 
ously. 

“That is just why I sent for you to come out 


98 


early. I wanted to fix up something to make it all 
straight, but Mrs. Mowbray waylaid me before you 
came down, so I told her that Mr. DeLancey was 
dead and his wife had returned to New York. Of 
course, we don’t hioio that she has, but we take 
that for granted. Mrs. Mowbray trotted off, at 
once, to spread the news, so we will just hold to 
that story ; but, for heaven’s sake, don’t let them 
find out that the telegram did not come until this 
morning, while our fair friend left last night. I 
telegraphed Dwight to let us know when she 
reached home.” 

When another telegram came from Dwight, 
stating that Mrs. DeLancey had arrived safely, 
Mrs. Carter felt greatly relieved. She was fond 
of the frivolous little woman and grieved over her 
plan to desert her husband; and he had died just 
when she was about to sever the bonds which bound 
them together. It was very tragical and Mrs. Car- 
ter’s thoughts constantly reverted to it, and in 
thinking of the sad and lonely life Mr. DeLancey 
had led, it occurred to her that the life of her own 
husband was hardly less sad and lonely. 

In speaking of Mrs. DeLancey, Chatterton had 
said that she was of no use to anybody ; she was a 
mere cumberer of the ground ; was she not, too? 


99 


All the day following the receipt of the second 
telegram, Mrs. Carter kept to her own room ; she 
wanted to think and also to escape the curious 
questions of the hotel guests. 

Gradually it dawned upon her that she had not 
half tried to make Dwight happy ; she had kept 
her heart buried in Sidney Wilson’s grave; had 
nursed her grief and paid but little heed to the 
living husband who was, certainly, entitled to some 
consideration. 

She remembered how Dwight had loved her 
when they were married, how he had hung about 
her and watched her with adoring eyes, and how, 
little by little, he had become estranged from her ; 
he had seen that his caresses were never returned 
and his presence merely tolerated, and he had begun 
to leave her more to herself and had buried himsel 
in his business, leaving her to go her own way, un- 
disturbed. And she had precipitated herself into 
all the fashions and follies of the day, trying to 
drown her sorrow — and had not succeeded. 

Then, at times, she had tried to accept Chatter- 
ton’s cynicism and believe there was no good in 
anything — but even that had failed her. 

As twilight fell, she was sitting with her head in 
her hands, rocking herself, gently, to and fro. She 
was making a great resolution. 


100 


“ I will go back to Dwight and try to win him 
back to me ; perhaps it is not too late. I have 
tried Chatterton’s way, now I will try Mrs. Mait- 
land’s. I will believe in love and faith and good- 
will. I will let the dead past lie dead, and live for 
love of Dwight, instead of killing myself for love 
of Sidney — but, oh, Sidney ! Sidney ! ” 

It was like kissing his dear, dead face, and bid- 
ding him a last farewell, and she fell to sobbing, 
bitterly. 


CHAPTER XVII. 

When evening had set in, Mrs. Carter decided to 
dress and go down stairs. She donned her prettiest 
gown, a blue one, and gave a sad little smile in the 
mirror, as she remembered how Sidney had liked to 
see her in blue, and had often said blue was her 
color. 

Then she gave a little gasping sigh, and said, 
sternly, to her own reflection in the glass : 

“ But I am going to dress to please Dwight, after 
this, and I don’t even know his favorite color ; it 
never occurred to me to ask, and if he ever ex- 




101 


pressed an opinion on the subject, I fail to remem- 
ber it.” 

There was dancing going on when she got down 
stairs, but Mrs. DeLancey’s absence took away all 
of Mrs. Carter’s pleasure. 

“I cannot dance; my heart is weighing down 
my feet,” she said to Chatterton, when he asked 
her to take part in the lancers. 

So she looked on, idly, and, after awhile, seeing 
Chatterton leaning against a door-post, motioned 
him to her with her fan. 

“ Chatterton, suppose we start home to-morrow ; 
I want to go back to Dwight. Will you telegraph 
him to expect us, please ? ” 

Chatterton was filled with an astonishment which 
he was too well-bred to show ; he would not have 
been in the least surprised if she had said she 
wanted to go back to attend somebody’s tea, or a 
reception to be given by somebody else, but — to go 
back to Dwight ! Was there no end to a woman’s 
duplicity ? Of course, he went at once to send the 
telegram, quoting as he turned away : 

“ There are more strange things in heaven 
and earth, Horatio, 

Than are dreamt of in our philosophy.” 


7 


102 


Accordingly, the next day, the party divided ; 
Mrs. Lane and her daughter accompanying Mrs. 
Carter and Chatterton to New York, while Mrs. 
Mowbray was induced to stay on the mountain to 
chaperon Miss Willoughby, who was in the depths 
of a flirtation with a handsome Southerner, and 
Miss Voie, who was already engaged to two men at 
the Inn. 

It was with genuine regret that Mrs. Carter left 
historic Lookout Mountain, bathed in glorious sun- 
shine, to return to frost-bound New York, but she 
had now laid out her walk in life and wanted to 
begin to tread it, though she feared it would be 
thorny. Dwight and she were so far apart that she 
scarcely knew how they could ever walk hand in 
hand. 

Mrs. Lane, her daughter and Chatterton were 
very gay and chatted and laughed all the way to 
New York, but Mrs. Carter was silent and thought- 
ful ; she was planning her future. 

When, at last, the long journey was at an end, 
the first thing she saw was Dwight’s keen, dark 
face, clear-cut as a cameo, but wearing the tense, 
hurried, anxious look seen on the majority of the 
faces of city business men. He greeted the trav- 


103 


ellers, gladly, and soon had his wife and brother at 
home, again. 

Mrs. Carter was very much fatigued by the 
journey and did not go upstairs until after having 
a cup of tea served in the drawing-room ; when, 
however, she went up to her room, Dwight went 
with her, and, with a look of pleased expectancy, 
said : 

“ I have prepared a little surprise for you, Sara ; 
you said, not long ago, you would like furniture of 
white enamel, so I have refurnished our bed- 
room.” 

He had opened the door and ushered her into 
the daintily furnished room. 

“ Oh, how lovely it is ! ” she cried, “ but where 
is — ” 

And then, to poor Dwight’s consternation, she 
threw herself face downward on the bed, and began 
to cry as though her heart would break. 

“ What is the matter?” asked Dwight, implor- 
ingly, “ don’t you like the new furniture, dear? I 
thought you would be so pleased with it, and I 
even had your old chair enameled to match the 
rest, and it looks just like new ; it was very shabby, 
but I knew you liked it, so I had it done over, 
and — do tell me what it is you don’t like.” 


104 


He was as disappointed as a child would have 
been. 

Mrs. Carter clinched her hands and bit her lips, 
and, at length, gained a little self-control and called 
all her new resolutions to her aid. 

“I am very tired and nervous, Dwight, dear; I 
will be all right again, presently ; you must not 
think I don’t like the furniture ; it is beautiful and 
it was so good of you to think of getting it for me ; 
indeed, indeed, I am delighted with it.” 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

It was several days before Mrs. Carter could gain 
sufficient courage to call upon Mrs. DeLancey ; she 
pictured the poor little woman overwhelmed with 
grief, shame and remorse, and thought that the 
sight of one who knew all the details of the affair 
would cause Mrs. DeLancey great mortification ; 
still it was her duty to make the call and, at last, 
she went. 

Mrs. DeLancey came into the drawing-room 
with her long, black gown trailing mournfully 
behind her ; she looked very pretty and cheerful, 


105 


rather too cheerful, Mrs. Carter thought. She 
rushed up to her visitor and kissed her, effusively. 

“ I thought you were never coming to see me, 
Sara; what has kept you away? I have been so 
lonely Avithout you ; I declare I don't know what 
to do with myself, now that I can't go out. Are 
you going to Mrs. Weldon's tea this afternoon? 
Do go, that's a dear, and then you can come and 
tell me all about it, and be sure you remember the 
jokes, especially Mrs. Weldon's — her jokes are 
always delightful. 

“And there is that big reception to-night; of 
course you are going there. I believe I will go 
and peep in the windows, just to see how people 
are dressed ; though it won't do me much good, 
now," she ended, with a regretful sigh and a glance 
at her black gown. 

All this time, Mrs. Carter had said not one word ; 
she was in a state of utter stupefaction. 

Presently, the door was opened, and Arabella 
timidly put her head in. 

“ Go away, Arabella," said Mrs. DeLancey, 
sharply; “ don't you see I am engaged?" 

Arabella quickly withdrew, and Mrs. DeLancey 
turned to her guest — 


106 


“ I don’t know what on earth to do with that 
child ; she does nothing but mope about and cry ; 
she is ugly enough, in all conscience, without 
making her eyes red. I hate red-eyed people, 
don’t you ? I think I will put her into a boarding 
school ; I am tired of her governess, at any rate ; I 
just got Miss Tenly because she is so big and dark 
and ugly — she makes such a good contrast to me — 
sets off my fair hair, you know; I always insist 
upon her coming in here when I have distinguished 
guests, and I make her keep quite close to me, all 
the time ; but she has such an uncomfortable way 
of looking at one, almost scornful, and I think I 
will let her go ; besides, Arabella is quite big 
enough, dark enough, and ugly enough to set me 
off well. 

“ That child is such a responsibility ! And just to 
think of her father leaving her half of his money ! 
It really is a burning shame ! I get the other half, 
of course, but there was no sense in leaving Ara- 
bella so much. Wasn’t his death tragic, Sara? 
Apoplexy, you know ; of course I didn’t know any- 
thing about it until I got here ; it seems Arabella 
got dreadfully frightened, and sent down for your 
husband, and got him to telegraph, but the message 
must have arrived after I left. Weren’t you sur- 


107 


prised to hear I was here? I shouldn't have been, 
only that provoking Mr. Wendell failed me ; yes, 
he did ; wasn't it mean of him ? I waited and 
waited for him in Chattanooga and then got angry 
and took a train for New York. 

“ He is in the city, too, now ; he has been here, 
but I would not see him, then he wrote me a note, 
but I did not answer it." She paused a moment 
for breath, then added, vindictively, “ I will never 
speak to him again — the coward." 

Mrs. Carter made no comment and Mrs. DeLan- 
cey went on. 

“ I saw Chatterton, the other day, and asked him 
in an olf-hand kind of a way, so he wouldn't suspect 
anything, if he could tell me where Mr. Wendell 
was the night I left Chattanooga, and he said that 
Mr. Wendell had spent the night playing cards 
and had lost all his money and gone to bed at three 
o’clock in the morning, very much under the influ- 
ence of liquor — dead drunk, I suppose, the horrid 
thing ! Think of his getting drunk and forgetting 
all about me — well, I am through with him ! " 

“ I am very glad to hear it," said Mrs. Carter, 
getting in a word for the first time, “ he is a wicked 
man and I hope you will hold to your resolution 
never to see him again." 


108 


“ Oh, I’ll stick to that, you may be sure ! And 
now tell me, Sara, how you like my new gown ; 
isn’t this crape beautiful? It cost five dollars a 
yard. I had always wanted to wear crape because 
it looks so well with my yellow hair, don’t you think 
it does ? — and oh, do tell me how to have a tea- 
gown made, I must have another one.” 

“You had better send for your dress-maker/’ 
said Mrs. Carter, rising to go ; she tried hard to 
keep the coldness and disgust out of her voice, 
but did not altogether succeed, for Mrs DeLancey, 
looking after her, as she went down the street, said 
to herself, “ I wonder what on earth is the matter 
with her” 


CHAPTER XIX. 

There was disappointment as well as disgust in 
Mrs. Carter’s heart as she turned her steps home- 
ward. 

She wondered how she could ever have made a 
friend of so vain and heartless a woman as Mrs. 
DeLancey, and, for the first time, it occurred to her 


109 


that, in the eyes of others, she herself might appear 
equally shallow. Did Dwight think her so ? 

He had loved and admired her once, she knew, 
but did he still ? 

She had taken no pains to hold him to her, and 
they had drifted farther and farther apart each year. 

Perhaps it Avas too late, now, she thought with 
something like dismay. 

It was all very well to resolve to make more of 
Dwight — to show him more consideration — but, 
perhaps, the day for that had gone by, perhaps he 
no longer cared anything for her, except with the 
luke warm affection she had always given him. 

The thought made her determine to begin, at 
once, to win him back to her, so, that evening, as 
he was preparing to leave the house, she asked, 
rather timidly — 

“ Won’t you stay at home, this evening, Dwight?” 

Had a bomb exploded in the room, it could not 
have created greater consternation. Chatterton, 
who was reading, laid down his book to look at the 
speaker, and, Dwight, in unfeigned concern, inquir- 
ed, solicitously — 

“ Why, are you ill, Sara ? ” 

“ Oh, no, I only thought I should like you to 
spend the evening with me,” she answered, trying 


110 


to look as though in the habit of making such 
requests. 

“ If I had known you wanted me/’ said Dwight — 
“ but I have made a business engagement which I 
shall have to keep. Haven’t you any party on 
hand to-night? Or — there’s Chatterton, he will 
keep you amused.” 

Thus it was that Mrs. Carter found she had up- 
hill work before her ; her husband was so unaccus- 
tomed to spending his time with her, that he could 
not be brought to believe that she really wished for 
his society. 

She tried to make him take an interest in the 
trifles of home life, but this, too, was difficult; one 
day she went to him — 

“ Dwight, we will have to have a new dining- 
room carpet; will you help me select it? It must 
shade with the walls.” 

To which he replied — 

“ Oh, get one to please yourself, dear.” 

“ But I want to please you,” she persisted. 

“ Please yourself and you will please me,” he 
answered, good-naturedly, and with that she had 
to be content. 

Dwight wondered, occasionally, over this new 
feature of his wife’s character ; why had she begun 
to notice him after all those years of neglect ? 


Ill 


He finally concluded that Mrs. Maitland, or 
some other well-meaning old soul, had been treat- 
ing Mrs. Carter to a dissertation on a woman’s duty 
to her husband, and had brought her to feel some 
compunction for her habitual disregard of him. 

But he did not want her pity, and he had tried, 
in vain, to win her love ; she should not sacrifice 
herself on the altar of duty ; so he gently put her 
aside and laughed at what he thought her assumed 
desire for his company. 

Mrs. Carter went frequently to see her old con- 
fidant, Mrs. Maitland, and into her ears poured the 
story of her trials. But not even to Mrs. Maitland 
did Mrs. Carter tell of Mrs. DeLancey’s escapade 
in the South, though it was Mrs. DeLancey’s folly 
that had opened her eyes to her neglect of Dwight ; 
it had done more towards setting her feet in the 
path of happiness than all Mrs. Maitland’s loving 
counsels or Chatterton’s cynicism. 

She told Mrs. Maitland, one day, about the night 
she had arrived home from her Southern trip : 

“ I was filled with good resolutions/’ she said, 
“ all the way home ; I had been planning to draw 
Dwight nearer to me, to enter into his thoughts 
and consider his happiness ; and then, when he took 
me upstairs to show me the pretty, white enameled 


112 


furniture, the first thing I looked for was the old 
chair I had brought with me; it was Sidney's 
chair; the one in which he died, and I had treas- 
ured it for years, and looked daily at the marks he 
had cut on it with his penknife, and, oh — Mrs. 
Maitland, Dwight had had it enameled! The 
marks of the penknife were entirely obliterated. 
I was so overcome that I at once began to cry and 
Dwight thought I did not like the furniture ; in 
reality, I had hardly looked at it. Of course he 
had no idea how I loved the shabby old chair ; but 
I'd rather he had enameled everything else in the 
house and left that old chair. 

“ That is just an example of the way it is con- 
tinually; we cannot enter into each other's feelings 
at all. And Dwight is always so busy that he does 
not notice what I do or what I wear ; it really does 
not seem worth while to try to dress to please him. 

u Now Chatterton always knows whether I have 
‘the blues' or am feeling in good spirits, and he is 
always ready with some pretty compliment when I 
am well dressed." 

“ Bother Chatterton ! " cried the old lady, ex- 
plosively. 

Mrs. Carter looked up in mild surprise, but the 
invalid volunteered no explanation. 


113 


Mrs. Maitland gave much advice and encourage- 
ment to her favorite while she was “ courting her 
husband/’ as she laughingly called it. 

The sweet-faced old lady did her best to instill 
into Mrs. Carter’s mind her own creed of peace, of 
charity — peace on earth, good will towards men. 

And in opposition to Mrs. Maitland stood Chat- 
terton, pointing out the road by which he honestly 
believed real peace and contentment were to be 
found. His cynical little speeches were forever 
ringing in Mrs. Carter’s ears. 

“ Life is a bore. 

“ A man is a fraud ; a woman a hypocrite. 

“ Evil lies only in detection. 

“ Happiness is a delusion ; love is a fable. There 
is no good in anything, and were we not all better 
off when we were monkeys?” 

But the day when these things affected Mrs. Car- 
ter, was almost over; though, sometimes, when her 
life seemed hardest, the thought would creep in : 

“ Is not Chatterton right, after all ? Is there 
happiness on earth ? ” 


114 


CHAPTER XX. 

At such times she would seek distraction from 
her doubts and fears in social life. For several 
weeks she would keep in a whirl of gayety, and 
then, as suddenly, abandon it all, and stay quietly 
at home, trying to “ make something of Dwight,” 
as she expressed it to herself. 

Dwight, not understanding, lived his usual busy 
life, and teased his wife, occasionally, about her 
“ sprees.” He said she was formerly in a state of 
social intoxication all the time, but, of late, she 
only went on “ sprees.” But it was only when she 
despaired of awakening his dormant affections, that 
she had these social sprees. 

Even Chatterton was puzzled, for a time; at first, 
he thought it must be a new fad to cultivate the 
society of one’s husband, and smiled, sardonically, 
at Dwight’s innocent inability to be cultivated. 

Thus the long winter wore away and when sum- 
mer came, Mrs. Carter, instead of flitting off to 
some mountain resort, as had been her custom, went 
to a quiet country place, not far from the city, and 


115 


insisted upon Dwight’s coming out there at night, 
after business hours. 

There came a day when Dwight stayed at home 
all day, and doctors, with anxious faces, hurried to 
and fro, and a white-capped nurse held sway in 
Mrs. Carter’s room. 

That night a son was born, and during the long 
night watches, while Mrs. Carter lay unconscious, 
Dwight walked up and down in front of her closed 
door, never stopping, save to ask a question in an 
anxious, fear-laden whisper, whenever a doctor or 
nurse appeared, and, outside the house, prone on 
the ground, beneath the lighted window, lay Chat- 
terton, face downward and hands tightly clutching 
the rank grass; towards morning the light inside 
was extinguished, and the hurried consultations 
ceased ; Mrs. Carter was sleeping quietly, and the 
worst was over ; then Chatterton got up and went, 
noiselessly, in to bed. 

Mrs. Carter was soon about again, but she was an 
entirely different woman ; gone was all the old 
craving for excitement — the passion for social life — 
for the mother-love had awakened once again in 
her heart, and her happiest hours were those spent 
with her baby in her arms. 

The wall of ice she had built around her heart, 


116 


after the death of the first husband and child, and 
which had, effectually, shut out all men, was 
softened, now, and her whole nature resumed the 
gentleness natural to it. Her kindness to Dwight 
was no longer forced ; her heart grew very tender 
towards the father of her child. 

Dwight, busy and preoccupied as ever, was blind 
to the transformation that had been wrought in his 
wife’s heart ; Chatterton, however, was not blind ; 
he now read the heart of his brother’s wife as 
though it were a book. 

In October they all returned to their New York 
house. One day, when the child was three months 
old, they were all assembled, after tea, in the 
library. Mrs. Carter sat with the baby in her lap, 
and when Dwight rose to go, she held the boy up 
for him to see. 

“ Isn’t he pretty, Dwight ? ” 

Poor Dwight, being a truthful man and being, 
also, utterly devoid of tact, answered, hesitatingly : 

“ Well, I don’t know about that, Sara.” 

She made no answer, but hugged the baby close, 
while her eyes filled with tears. 

Dwight went down stairs, but Chatterton, who 
had seen the tears, bent down and gently patted the 
cheek of the pink-faced atom of humanity. 


117 


“ Of course he is pretty ; he couldn’t be other- 
wise, my beautiful.” 

Mrs. Carter looked up in pleased surprise, and a 
great temptation seized Chatterton to take advan- 
tage of her softened mood. Dwight was not making 
the slightest attempt to win her heart ; why should 
he not win it for himself? He had never been an 
over-scrupulous man, and he had won the hearts of 
so many women without half trying, why not this 
one — the only one he wanted ? 

And then Chatterton Carter did the one noble 
deed of his ignoble life — he put the temptation 
sternly away, and went quickly down stairs to the 
smoking-room, where he knew he would find his 
brother. 

Dwight was seated by the fire, and Chatterton 
stationed himself directly in front of him ; utterly 
regardless of the Biblical injunction, he began : 

“ Dwight, you are a fool ; do you hear me ? The 
darndest fool I ever saw ; don’t you see that your 
chance lias come ? The only chance you ever had 
to take your place in your wife’s heart ? Don’t you 
see that her heart is softening toward you ? 

“ Good God, man ! Are you going to let your 
one chance slip? You’ve got to make your way in 
along with your child, or you will never get there ; 

8 


118 


that youngster is making a way for you; go and 
take it. Go and tell her he is pretty, beautiful, 
divine ; anything ; what do a few lies matter ? Go ! 
Go, I tell you ! ” 

And Dwight went with mingled surprise, joy, 
and doubt, while Chatterton sank down by the fire, 
and covered his face with his hands. 

Dwight went into the library, where his wife 
still sat, holding the baby. He fidgeted about the 
room, uncertain how to begin, and, at length, in an 
agony of suspense, he blurted out : 

“ Bara, I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings by 
saying the baby was not — I mean by not saying it 
was pretty.” 

“ Please don’t say it” interrupted his wife, with- 
out raising her eyes. 

“ Oh, I mean ‘ him ; ’ well, as I was saying — 
what was I saying? Oh, yes, that I really think he 
is — ” 

Here he looked down at the baby, and to say it 
was pretty was so palpably untrue ! So he began 
again : 

“ I think it — he — ought to be — or, rather, will 
be — ah — I think, yes, indeed, Sara. I really do 
think it. I mean he — will — will — do.” 

At this Mrs. Carter broke into a ringing laugh. 


119 


“ Oh, you really think he will do, do you? What 
a dear old goose you are, Dwight. You are so 
hopelessly truthful! Fll accept your apology, 
though it was not very gracefully expressed.” 

She laughed so merrily that all Dwight’s confu- 
sion vanished, and he seated himself on a low stool 
at her feet. Presently he began in a low, earnest 
tone : 

“ Sara, I thought — no, the thought was Chatter- 
ton’s ; he said he thought perhaps you would come 
to love me a little now ; do you think you could, 
dear — for the baby’s sake ? ” 

Her eyes filled with tears ; it hurt her to hear 
him plead for her love after all those years of mar- 
ried life ; it hurt her to think she had withheld her 
love so long. 

She bent and kissed him tenderly. “ I will 
love you, Dwight, dear, not only for the baby’s 
sake, but for your own.” 

After that life was easier for them both, and day 
by day their love and confidence grew. 

One day Mrs. Carter sat rocking the baby to 
sleep, while Chatterton stood leaning against the 
mantel, looking down on the pretty picture made 
by mother and child. She looked up and said with 
a smile : 


120 


“ I am learning, once more, the meaning of hap- 
piness.” 

“ And I the meaning of pain,” sprang to the lips 
of the cynic, but the words remained unspoken, 
and he only smiled down into her upturned face, 
with that peculiarly captivating smile that made 
his face so attractive. 

A few weeks later, when Dwight and his wife 
were finding their greatest happiness in each 
other’s society, Chatterton announced at the break- 
fast table one morning that he was going abroad 
again, and, in answer to exclamations of surprise 
and regret, he explained that he never had liked 
New York, and thought he would try London 
again. 

In a few days he left ; they all, even to the baby, 
went down to see him off. 

Dwight wrung his hand hard, at parting, and 
said, gratefully : 

“ God bless you, old man, for opening my eyes.” 

Chatterton understood, and returned the hand- 
clasp, warmly. 

Then he kissed Mrs. Carter and the baby. 
“ Good-bye, my beautiful,” he said, “ and to the 
beautiful baby — good-bye,” and with one last, 


121 


brilliant smile — that smile that was so strange and 
so very beautiful, he vanished from their sight. 

As the steamer bore him away, he stood looking 
back at the little group on the wharf, waving fare- 
well to him. 

“ A happy family group,” he said to himself, 
with a touch of the old cynicism. “ The curtain 
always goes down on a reunited family ; ring down 
the curtain, put out the lights, and exit Chatterton 
Carter ! ” 




























































* 


















































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123 


CHAMPAGNE CORKS. 


CHAPTER I. 

The most entertaining man I ever knew? Well, 
I think old John Castleton answers to that descrip- 
tion ; he was the queerest, most eccentric character 
imaginable. 

It has been many years since I first met John 
Castleton — the “General,” as he was always called, 
though just why I never knew, unless on account 
of his undoubted ability to command ; he certainly 
was commander -in -chief of the old University 
building in which he lived. The building itself 
came to be called “ The Garrison.” They tell me 
the dear old University has been torn down. It 
stood in Washington Square for sixty years ; surely 
it had the best right there ; why should it make 
way for anything else? Washington Square was no 
square at all when the University was built; it was 


124 


a potter’s field, and the grand University rescued 
it from oblivion and made it what it is, and now 
the square has no longer any need of its benefactor 
and the University has had to go ! It was an im- 
posing building with its towers and battlements and 
deep windows. 

When I went there, to live I was charmed with 
it ; I was something of a dreamer in those days, 
and the medieval gloom of the place delighted me ; 
it reminded me of the vast castles of old romance. 
The long stone corridors were but dimly lighted, 
and the walls were so thick that no sound ever 
penetrated them. 

And no less interesting was the colony of bache- 
lors collected beneath its roof p authors, artists, 
and actors, principally. 

I believe there was, at that time, a small portion 
of the building still devoted to university purposes, 
but the greater number of the rooms were rented to 
bachelors — and what charming bon-vivants these 
men were! regular Bohemians, most of them; and 
the rooms were as varied as their occupants. You 
would open the door of one room, and, coming out 
of the dim, cold corridor, be dazzled by the bright- 
ness, warmth and luxury of the room, softly car- 
peted, brilliantly lighted and filled with costly 


125 


furniture ; and perhaps the very next room you 
would find as plain and bare as a monastery cell. 

But it made no difference there whether a man 
wore velvet or homespun, drank champagne or 
cider, they were all stanch friends. It is impossi- 
ble now to recall the names of all the famous men 
who lived in the Garrison at different times, but 
Lester Wallack was one and Ned Sothern another. 
From the roof of the University, Draper took the 
first daguerreotype ever taken in America, and 
Morse sent from one of its windows the first tele- 
graphic message. 

There the author, Barker, lived, and wrote, and 
died ; Drew wrote “ The Worldling ” there, and 
Winthrop made “ Cecil Dreeme” immortal. 

Fenimore Cooper wove many a romance in those 
quaint rooms, and from there, Poe sent forth hi3 
weird and mystical poems To this historical uni- 
versity, then, I came, a very young and very callow 
journalist, and there I met John Castleton. 

The manner of our first meeting was odd, de- 
cidedly odd ; a friend of mine, an actor named 
Cobb, had induced me to take up my quarters at 
the Garrison, where he had lived for several years; 
as he was conducting me to the room which was to 
be mine, we entered one of the long corridors, and 


12(3 


were startled by a shrill, angry voice, proceeding 
from one of the rooms, the door of which stood 
open. The unseen speaker was undoubtedly in a 
towering passion, and was hurling the most fright- 
ful maledictions at some other person, also invisi- 
ble to us. The strange part of it was that the oaths 
were delivered in a great variety of languages — 
French and Spanish were followed by the most 
horrible German imprecations and interspersed 
with violent English. An inkstand came hurling 
through the door and was shivered against the 
stone wall of the corridor, a stream of ink staining 
the wall and floor ; the inkstand was followed by a 
paper-weight which, unluckily, struck me just 
below the eye. I wanted to go in at once, and 
expressing my opinion in language more forcible 
than polite, demand an apology, but Cobb pulled 
me on. 

“ Never mind,” he said, soothingly, “ its only 
the General ; he seems a little out of humor to- 
night.” 

U A little out of humor, indeed,” I growled, 
“ then I shouldn't care to be around when he is 
downright angry; and who the deuce is the General?” 

“ Blest if I know,” said Cobb, “ here's your room, 
so make yourself at home while I go out to get 
something for that eye.” 


127 


Cobb was gone at least half an hour, during 
which time my eye had become frightfully swelled 
and assumed a royal purple tinge; almost immedi- 
ately after Cobb’s departure, there came a knock 
at my door, and still cherishing angry feelings on 
account of the blow received, I shouted, “ Come 
in,” in a rough, unceremonious voice ; the door was 
opened by a tall negro who wheeled into the room 
an invalid’s chair in which an old man was seated; 
the negro then withdrew, closing the door softly 
behind him. 

“I am John Castleton,” began my visitor, “and 
I have come to crave your pardon for the blow 
I unwittingly gave you; the paper-weight was 
intended for my man Dobson, but my aim is not 
as sure as it used to be. 

“ Dobson told me I had struck a stranger. I fear 
your eye will keep you within doors for a day or 
two, during which time I beg you will allow me to 
atone by doing what I can for your comfort and 
entertainment. I seldom pay visits, but hope you 
will spend much time in my den. Will you come, 
and am I forgiven? Yes? Thank you.” 

He touched a bell attached to his chair, and Dob- 
son immediately appeared and wheeled him away. 
From the moment I first beheld John Castleton, I 


128 


was under a spell of enchantment. I never have 
been able to recall what part, if any, I took in the 
conversation ; my impression is that I uttered not 
a syllable, but stood agape like an awkward 
school-boy. 

The old man’s distorted limbs were carefully 
covered, and it was not pity for him as a cripple 
that stirred me so deeply ; it was his strangely 
beautiful face, framed in long, snow-white hair; 
how shall I ever describe it? I can only tell the 
thoughts it awoke in me — it made me think of 
saints and martyrs, of vast cathedrals filled with 
u dim, religious light/’ of incense, of the deep notes 
of some grand organ, of rare old paintings and 
sculptures, of the crucifixion, of the prayers of my 
childhood. I felt that I could have fallen down 
and confessed my sins to him ; surely the possessor 
of such a face must be “ unspotted from the 
world.” 

His face was as white as any marble, the features 
perfect, the expression divine, and the great, 
mournful eyes seemed to have grown sorrowful for 
the sins of the world. 

At parting he had smiled; such a slow, sad 
smile, it awoke a feeling of deep reverence in my 
breast. 


129 


While I sat meditating, Cobb returned, and pro- 
ceeded to bathe my eye. 

“ The man who struck me has been here,” I said 
to him. 

“ Been here ! the General ?” cried Cobb, incredu- 
lously, “ I never knew him to leave his hole before ; 
well, did you tell him what you thought of your 
reception in your new home?” 

u N-o,” I stammered. 

“ What did you think of him?” pursued Cobb. 

“ He is — heavenly!” I cried, enthusiastically. 

Cobb put down the bottle he had been holding 
and began to laugh — “ Heavenly ! ” he echoed — 
“ heavenly — the General ! Oh, that is good ! My 
dear boy, I fear that blow has affected your brain ; 
have you forgotten that it was this ‘ heavenly ’ 
General you heard swearing as we came in?” 

I had forgotten it utterly. 


130 


CHAPTER II. 

The following day, being confined to the house 
by my unfortunate eye, and growing weary of my 
own society, I concluded to visit the General. The 
man, Dobson, opened the door in answer to my 
knock, and sweeping a pile of books from a chair, 
offered it to me. The General welcomed me cor- 
dially, and I spent the afternoon in his den. 

And such a den as it was ! It looked like a curi- 
osity shop ; there were three large book-cases, filled 
to overflowing with books, not placed in orderly 
rows, but jammed in at all angles, and without any 
attempt at classification ; one would probably have 
had to look through five hundred books to find any 
particular one ; there were books on the floor, on 
the chairs and tables, and in the window-seats, and 
around, and among and over the books were news- 
papers, many of them several years old. I could 
not imagine why such stacks of newspapers should 
be preserved. 

The walls, above and between the book-cases, 
were covered with pictures, some really good paint- 


131 


ings ; some were sketches, but most of them done 
by the artists who, at various times, had lived in 
the University. Over the mantel hung a quaint 
old sword on which a motto was graven, and above 
the sword a tattered banner. The manner in which 
the most incongruous things were mingled was 
remarkable — a small Indian idol stood on its head 
to form a resting-place for a tobacco jar ; a bronze 
statuette of Bacchus wore a rosary about its neck, 
and a dainty little sketch of “Peace” was pinned 
to the wall by a dagger. 

There were Assyrian harps and quaint old flutes, 
priceless sculptures, forgotten coins, rare carvings, 
and shields and spurs and swords. But I can never 
begin to enumerate the contents of that room, nor 
its hopeless confusion ; poor Dobson was perpetu- 
ally at work, but never seemed to make the slightest 
impression on the general disorder ; he always had 
to clear books or papers from the chairs when guests 
came in, but merely transferred them to the floor. 

In one corner of the room stood a bust of Byron, 
and looking not unlike it, in its marble whiteness, 
rose the fine head of the old General. 

He sat always in his wheeled chair, and read in- 
cessantly. 


• 132 


It was the duty of Dobson to search for the book 
his master wanted, and it often took hours to find 
it. Very frequently, too, the master’s temper 
would not stand the delay ; poor Dobson received a 
volley of oaths, and considered himself lucky if the 
volley was not books, paper weights, or Chinese gods. 

As the days wore on, I fell into the habit of drop- 
ping in to see the General almost every night, and 
soon found that the majority of the oddly assorted 
Bohemians living in the University had formed the 
same habit. 

The old General was a great favorite ; lie was a 
fluent conversationalist, and as well posted in cur- 
rent affairs as in ancient history. 

He took a keen interest in all the men about 
him, and into his sympathetic ears we poured the 
stories of our successes and our failures in the great 
outside world, into which he could not go. 

It was a strange, delightful life we lived in the 
quaint old University. I made friends quickly and 
was soon on good terms with the whole household. 
I worked hard all day and at night returned home 
with feelings of gay anticipation. 

One night there would be a champagne supper 
given by some man of wealth and leisure, who, like 
John Castleton, lived in the University simply be- 


133 


cause he liked the freedom of the life there ; at 
these suppers we were served to all the delicacies of 
the season on silver and fine china, with deft-handed 
servants in attendance. 

The next night found us assembled in the room 
of some poverty-stricken artist where there were not 
chairs enough to go around, so that most of us sat 
on the table or on invalided stools, and, owing 
to the scarcity of glasses, drank our beer from tin 
cups ; at these suppers, beer and crackers and cheese 
formed the first course, and cheese and crackers and 
beer the second. 

Empty bottles served as candle-sticks, palettes as 
plates and everything was sham but the welcome 
— that was royal. 

Oh, the songs we sang ! and the stories we told ! 
Wit and laughter ran riot, and the toasts would 
have graced any board in the land. 

There was but one man in the building with 
whom I never became acquainted, and that was 
because he never left his room. He was a very 
old man, and a miser; he lived on the top floor, 
and for twenty years before his death, no living 
being had crossed his threshold ; his meals were 
taken to the door by the janitor, and it was the 


9 


134 


janitor bv whom lie was found dead just a few years 
ago. 

He was lying across an old claw-foot table, sur- 
rounded by hundreds of musty books and valuable 
paintings. The poor, lonely, old man had lived in 
the University for forty-nine years. 

One evening five or six of us had gathered together 
in the General's room ; the conversation turned 
upon old manuscripts, and the General told Dobson 
to unearth some literary treasures from a table 
dra wer ; Dobson chanced to open the wrong drawer, 
and pulled it so violently that it came entirely out, 
precipitating its contents on the floor. This drawer 
certainly did not contain rare manuscripts, for it 
was filled with the corks of champagne bottles. 

The unlucky Dobson began hastily to gather 
them from the floor, while his master poured out 
the vials of wrath upon his head. 

I was lying at full length on the hearth-rug, and 
as one of the corks rolled near me, picked it up, 
and, to my surprise, saw something written on it 
— a date and some initials ; I looked at another 
cork, and found that it, too, was marked. 

“ Queer kind of a collection ”, I said to the 
General ; “ who ever heard of a collection of cham- 
pagne corks, and what does that writing mean ?” 


135 




“ It is a queer collection, as you say,” he answered, 
“ and every cork has its history ; there is not one 
that will not bring to me some pleasant or sad 
recollection, or some odd tale. I would not part 
with those corks for a fortune.” 

“ Tell us some of the stories they recall to you,” 
I said, eagerly, for I dearly loved to hear the old 
man talk, and felt sure his tales would be interest- 
ing. 

I held up to him the cork I had in my hand ; 
“ Tell about this one,” I said ; “ who was R. C. ?” 

The General took the cork and looked at it with 
unwonted pleasure in his face. 

“ Oh, that R. C. means Robert Curzon ; we 
travelled together in the Levant — dear old Robert 
Curzon ; did you notice the name written on the 
bottom of this cork? it is Simopetria, that being 
the name of the monastery on Mount Athos which 
I once visited with Robert Curzon and where there 
lived a man who had never beheld a woman.” 

There was a chorus of exclamation and expostu- 
lation — “ Must have been blind ! ” 

“ Home without a mother ! ” 

“ What about the old lady ?” 

“That is too much, General, even from you!” 


136 


The old man smiled, serenely, and, when the 
storm subsided, took up the thread of his story. 

“ This man was a monk, a tall, handsome fellow, 
about thirty years of age. He was deputed to do 
the honors of the house to Robert Curzon, and, in 
course of conversation, told his history ; his parents 
and most of the inhabitants of the hamlet where he 
was born had been massacred during some revolt. 
He was too young at the time to remember anything 
about it ; he had been educated in this monastery, 
and his whole life had been passed in it. 

“ He did not remember his mother and did not 
seem quite sure that he had ever had one; he had 
never seen a woman, nor had he any idea what sort 
of creatures women were, or what they looked like : 
he asked whether they resembled the pictures of the 
Holy Virgin : there are a good many things neglect- 
ed in a monastery education. 

“ The monastery of Simopetria was founded by 
St. Simon, the anchorite. It stands on a lofty rock, 
and is connected with the mountain by a tine 
acqueduct which consists of two rows of arches, one 
above the other, with one wide and lofty arch across 
a chasm, immediately under the walls of the mon- 
astery. 


137 


“ It was no slight effort of gymnastics to get up to 
the door. Many of those old Coptic monasteries 
are almost inaccessible, and one has to be drawn up 
to them by ropes manipulated by the monks. 

. “ I suppose they were built in these inaccessible 
places to be safe in troublous times. An expedi- 
tion to the numerous monasteries on Mount Athos 
is intensely interesting; the monks themselves are 
quaint and original and given to hospitality.” 

“ Tell us more of the handsome monk of Simo- 
petria,” I said. 


CHAPTER III. 

The General leaned back in his chair, and told 
us the story. 

THE MONK OF SIMOPETRIA. 

“ The monk of Simopetria did not stay long in 
the monastery after Robert Curzon left it — ” 

“ I thought you were there, too,” interrupted 
Cobb. 

“ Of course, of course,” said the General irrita- 
bly, “didn't I say I was with Robert Curzon?” 


138 


“ I beg your pardon/’ said Cobb, and the Gen- 
eral began again. 

“ He grew weary of his monastic life and duties, 
and so, one day, he left Simopetria. 

“ I never learned where, or under what circum- 
stances he first beheld a woman ; it would be inter- 
esting to know, and also to know whether he 
thought she resembled the pictures and images of 
the Virgin Mary. 

u One night, about a year after my visit to the 
monastery, I was dining in a cafd in Paris, when to 
my unbounded astonishment, in walked the monk; 
he had cast off his monkish garb, and was plainly 
and rather carelessly dressed ; he sat down near me, 
and when I rose to go, followed me and touched 
my shoulder. 

‘“I think I have met you before/ he said, 
quietly. 

“I was glad to meet him again, and curious con- 
cerning him, so I walked along beside him without 
asking his destination; he turned into a quiet 
street, and after walking a short distance, stopped. 

Will you not come in and continue our chat?’ . 
he asked, courteously. 

“ I assented and turned to the house nearest, but 
he took my arm and drew me to the curb where an 
empty cab was standing without horses. 


139 


“ ‘ This is where I live/ he said, and we stepped into 
the cab ; he lighted a candle and lowered the blinds ; 
the cushions were soft, and we were very cozy and 
comfortable; but wasn’t it a queer place to live? I 
began plying him with questions : ‘ Did he not re- 

gret leaving the monastery ? He had lived there 
all his life, and must have loved it? ’ 

“ He admitted that he yearned for it at times, and 
said there were some things he regretted not having 
brought away with him ; notably, the toe of a saint 
in pickle, and a bottle containing the tears of a 
martyr ! 

“ He told me his chief reason for leaving the 
monastery was a desire to see the world, ‘ and I 
find this a good way to see it/ he said ; ‘you see, 
when I reach a city, the first thing I do is to secure 
a cab to be my home during my stay ; the driver 
takes me about in the cab and shows me the sights 
all day, and when night comes, he takes his horses 
and goes away, and I sleep in the cab ; in this way 
I see all I wish to see, and yet do not have to en- 
counter people very much — only when I go to a 
caf6 for my meals ; it bothers me to meet people ; 
I am not used to them.’ 

“ Did you ever hear of anything so queer? He 
actually travelled all over Europe and lived in cabs, 
through sheer dread of human beings. 


140 


“ Bat when I met the monk for the third time, it 
was here in New York, and he was not living in a 
cab, then, I assure you, neither was he yearning 
for pickled toes, and he certainly was no longer 
afraid of women ; I will describe the picture — a 
large room filled with tables at which men and 
women were seated, all drinking ; at one table sat 
two men and two women ; one woman was an 
American, the other an Italian; one man a profes- 
sional gambler, the other — the monk of Simope- 
tria ! 

“ I never forgot a face, otherwise I should not 
have recognized my monkish friend, for he was fash- 
ionably, even elegantly dressed, and was apparently 
quite at his ease among his strange surroundings. 

“ All four were flushed and excited, and they 
emptied bottle after bottle of wine ; presently the 
monk, after refilling the glass of the fair-haired 
American, raised the glass to his lips and kissed it, 
then smilingly pushed it across the table to her; but, 
quick as a flash, the jealous Italian woman drew 
out a dagger and thrust its gleaming blade into the 
hand of the monk ; it passed entirely through, and 
into the table, pinning his hand down. The other 
woman screamed and the gambler swore, but the 
monk lifted with his left hand the bottle of wine, 


141 


filled up his glass, and turning to the enraged 
Italian, bowed and smiled ; ‘ Your health, cherie 
and tossed down the wine. The gambler began to 
draw out the dagger, a crowd collected about them, 
and I left the room. 

“ Again 1 was destined to see the monk, and amid 
even stranger surroundings ; ten years had passed, 
and I found myself, one day, in a quaint old Mexi- 
can town. 

“It happened to be Good Friday, and I saw a 
large number of people wending their way to a 
large, open space just out of the town ; I followed, 
filled with curiosity, for the people were religious 
fanatics, calling themselves Penitents, and I knew 
I was about to witness some old religious perform- 
ance. 

“ Imagine my horror, when ‘on reaching the field, 
I found I was to witness a crucifixion ! A large 
cross was lying on the ground and near it some 
crude pieces of iron with sharp edges and slightly 
sharp points which were to be driven through the 
hands and feet of the victim. 

“ I learned from a man near me that it had long 
been a custom of the Penitents to crucify one of 
their number each recurring Good Friday; he also 
told me that the government had been trying to 


142 


put a stop to the practice, and the Penitents were 
very much afraid the soldiers would come that day 
from Elmora. 

“ My informant then pointed out to me the man 
who was to be crucified ; he was standing near the 
cross, and he wore the robe of a monk. I recog- 
nized the monk of Simopetria ! He had apparently 
wearied of his worldly life, and forsaking the world, 
the flesh, and the devil, had turned once more to 
religion, and, doubtless, had offered himself a will- 
ing sacrifice to this day’s custom. 

a The people were all singing, and praying, and 
swaying to and fro in a religious frenzy, while the 
monk stood with his cowl thrown back, his face 
upturned to heaven, and his hands clasped in 
prayer. How was I to save him? There was no 
time to lose, format any moment the Penitents might 
begin their cruel work. I knew the little Mexican 
pony on which I had ridden out to be as fleet as 
the wind, and I first thought of mingling with the 
crowd near the monk, and getting close enough to 
whisper in his ear to mount my pony and be gone. 
The beast was too small to carry us both, but 1 
hoped that if the monk escaped, the people could 
not prove my complicity. 


143 


“ I had formulated this plan very quickly, but 
then it occurred to me that the monk would, in all 
probability, refuse to go, for he was not bound in 
any way, but was apparently quite willing to be 
crucified ; I must then save him in spite of him- 
self; I would hasten to Elmora, fifteen miles away, 
and bring the government soldiers to put a stop to 
this brutal crucifixion. 

“ I withdrew from the crowd as quietly as possi- 
ble, so as not to attract attention, but once on the 
road to Elmora, I put my mettlesome little steed 
into a run. 

“ Never, never shall I forget that ride — that terri- 
ble ride to Elmora ! 

u My pony fairly flew over the rough ground, and 
I bent over his head, riding for life ! The wind 
whistled in my ears ; the ground seemed to rise up 
to meet the sky, and then to sink down, down, and 
rock beneath me — ah, it was a wild ride ! the sun 
was beating down on me, pitilessly, and my throat 
was hot and parched, while my eyes were filled with 
the sand thrown up by the flying hoofs. 

“I was past seeing, past hearing, almost past think- 
ing, when, at last, I tore through the quiet streets 
of Elmora, but I managed to tell my story to the 
authorities, and had the satisfaction of seeing the 


144 


cavalry mount and ride away to save the fanatical 
monk; I could only pray that they might not be 
too late. My pony and I were both utterly ex- 
hausted, and I dared not return, had I been able, 
lest the Penitents should suspect me and wreak 
their vengeance on my head. 

“So I waited in Elmora until the return of the 
soldiers; they had reached their destination only 
just in time to save the monk’s life, for the Peni- 
tents had already nailed one of his hands to the 
cross. 

“ Two years later I chanced, one bright summer 
morning, into a city in Dakota. I was travelling 
on horseback, and as I rode through the streets, I 
was struck with the utter silence prevailing in the 
place ; there was absolutely not a sound, save that 
made by my horse’s hoofs. 

“ The streets were graded and had good sidewalks, 
but grass grew over everything ; there were hand- 
some dwellings and business blocks, well built and 
of the best material, but the doors were barred, the 
windows closed ; the city was utterly desolate, 
though capable of a large population. I tell you 
it was grewsome, and 1 became exceedingly nerv- 
ous as I rode up one street and down another, only 
to meet with the same silence and desolation. 


145 


“ At last, tilled with a nameless dread, an eerie 
feeling of unreality, I rode out of the town, and 
soon came to a small stream; to my unutterable 
surprise and relief I saw a man seated on a burro 
in the middle of the stream. His back was toward 
me, but I was so delighted to find a living being in 
this weird place, that I cared little for creed or 
race. As I rode up to him, I was still further 
astonished to find that he was reading an ancient- 
looking volume, and that he was also engaged in 
fishing; he had fastened his line to his burro’s ear, 
and, just as I drew near, the burrow suddenly threw 
his ear back and — behold, drew out a trout ! 

“ The man took possession of the fish, dropped the 
line into the water again and then quietly turned 
to meet my astonished gaze; he appeared as free 
from surprise at seeing me there as if it were (ms- 
tomary for men to appear suddenly in that extra- 
ordinary place. 

“ Need I say that the fisherman was my old friend, 
the monk? He was very hospitable and invited me 
to return to the ghostly town and dine with him ; 
of course I accepted, and he conducted me to one 
of the largest and finest houses in the place ; it was 
almost bare, having no furniture save what the 
monk had made, and but few cooking utensils; the 


146 


dinner was plain but plentiful, and I wondered 
where he got his supplies until he explained that 
there was another city not far away which was not 
deserted. 

“ He then told me that this great, empty city had 
been planned and built by some Eastern capitalists 
who expected a railway to come there, but in that 
they were disappointed, and several other things 
combined to render a city at that point an unprofita- 
ble investment, so that the whole place had been 
given over to decay. The monk, world weary, 
had taken up his abode there, and had returned to 
the life of a recluse, which he had led in his youth 
in the monastery of Simopetria. I could not en- 
dure the frightful loneliness of the place, so I left 
the following day, not however before the monk 
had shown me some of his devotional treasures, 
among them a phial containing an inky fluid, which 
he solemnly assured me was some of the darkness 
which had once covered Egypt ” 

**^s|<*>K*:*: 

Among the General's auditors was a literary 
genius named Strang, a quiet, reserved man of 
scholarly attainments. During the General's recital, 
he had slipped quietly out of the room, remaining 
away but a few moments ; I chanced to glance up 


147 


at him as he came in again and saw in his 'deep 
eyes a look of quiet amusement which I did not in 
the least understand. 


CHAPTER IV. 

Once again it was evening, and once again I was 
at the feet of the General, literally and figuratively. 
I was stretched at full length on his hearth rug, 
holding in my hand a champagne cork which bore 
some mysterious initials. I had just taken it from 
the table drawer and was waiting, rather impa- 
tiently, for the story which the General had 
promised to relate as soon as the other men had 
arrived. 

Strang and Cobb had already come ; Strang was 
looking over some musty old folio, and Cobb, 
perched in the window-seat, was playing a game of 
solitaire on the back of a rare old violin. I had 
often w ondered hov r the old General had become so 
fearfully crippled, and had questioned several of 
the men in the building, but none of them knew ; 
he had always been very reticent on the subject, 
they said, and had resented being questioned. 


148 


This evening, prompted by some evil genius, I 
hinted very broadly my desire for information. 
The old man answered quite sharply : 

“ It is a lucky thing, my young friend, that there 
is less of me than of you ; you take up so much 
space that this room would not be large enough to 
hold us both.” 

Then he laughed a little and said : 

“ You ought to live in the Escorial.” 

“ Where is that?” I inquired. 

“ What an ignoramus you are ! El Escorial is a 
convent, a palace and a church, all in one, and you 
would have to walk ninety miles to traverse the 
whole of it. It is in Spain, near Madrid, and 
stands in a wild pine forest among the mountains. 
It Avas built by Philip II, and contains eighty-six 
staircases, forty altars, one thousand windows out- 
side, and more than one thousand inside ; it also 
has twelve thousand doors ; just think what a grand 
place in Avhich to lose your temper ; you could slam 
twelve thousand doors, and smash windoAvs all day! 
I visited it with a noted traveller some years ago.” 

I fell at once into my usual state of hero Avorship. 
“ Hoav many places you have been, Generalis- 
simo?” I said, admiringly. 

a Yes, yes, of course; Avhy not?” ansAvered the 


149 


old man, shortly, thinking, no doubt, that I was 
wondering how he could travel, being so crippled. 

Strang looked up quickly from his book, and I 
saw again the odd gleam in his eyes which I some- 
how resented, without knowing why, but it seemed 
to savor of disloyalty to my dear old General. 

Some other men came in just then, and, when 
they were seated, the old man took the cork from 
my hand, and, after looking at it for a few moments 
in silence, began his story. He betrayed no per- 
sonal knowledge of the hero, but told the tale as 
though he were reading it. 

THE TENOIt. 

“ The opera-house was crowded ; not a seat re- 
mained empty, and even standing-room was diffi- 
cult to secure. The house was a blaze of light, and 
beautiful women in shimmering satin, filmy lace 
and gleaming jewels vied with each other in splen- 
dor. The odor of flowers was almost overpower- 
ing, but a slight breeze was created by the waving 
of many fans. On every face sat an eager expect- 
ancy, and, presently, all eyes were turned to the 
stage and the murmur of voices ceased, for close to 
the foot-lights stood Vingtoll, The Tenor. He was 

10 


150 


tall and slender, with dark eyes and gleaming, yel- 
low hair, which caught the rays of light and im- 
prisoned them. His was a face of strong passions 
and unlimited power; not the face of a good man, 
but fascinating, for all that. He was the idol of 
Paris, of London, of all the world, not for his 
beauty, nor for his personal magnetism, but by rea- 
son of his wonderful voice. He had sung in every 
large city of two continents, and everywhere had 
met with the same adulation. 

“ All the world was at his feet ; fame and riches 
were his and the adoration of fair women. He 
lived amid the roses and lilies of life, and walked 
ever in the sunshine. 

“ To-night the wealth and beauty of Paris awaited 
the sound of his voice. He faced, calmly, the 
crowded house, then lifted up his voice and filled 
the silence. The vast space was flooded with 
melody as he wafted his notes into it. The very 
air throbbed with music, and the gay throng grew 
spellbound. Sweeter and sweeter grew the divine 
voice of The Tenor. Men, caught in the toils of 
sound, held their breath, and women fairly sobbed. 
His voice was almost a wail, now, so sweet, so infi- 
nitely sad. Hearts, usually indifferent to suffering, 
poverty, and all the unutterable misery of a great 


city, were softened and made to thrill with noble 
impulses. Then, slowly, gently, like the dying 
away of the wind in the trees, the song came to a 
close and men looked into each other’s faces, a trifle 
ashamed of their unwonted emotion. 

“ The next song was in a different key ; the plain- 
tive minor had disappeared, and loud and clear and 
martial came the notes thundering forth, inciting 
men to warlike deeds and knightly valor. 

“ One could almost hear the cannon booming and 
see the regiments file by with flags waving and 
drums beating. It was war — glorious war! And 
every man there felt himself a hero ! 

“So on and on sang The Tenor, swaying the peo- 
ple this way and that with his magical, God-given 
voice. 

“ That night, when The Tenor left the opera- 
house, two friends who accompanied him commented 
on his singing : 

“ * It was grand ! ’ said one. 

“ ( It was diabolical ! ’ said the other. ‘ I don’t 
like to have lumps as big as my fist in my throat.’ 
But The Tenor only laughed. 

“ One day the idolized singer disappeared from 
Paris ; his engagement there was at an end for the 
season, but he had not yet gone to London, where 


152 


he was next to sing ; his boon companions missed 
him sadly. 

“ ‘ Where is Yingtoll?’ asked one; and another 
answered, ‘Gone off on that mysterious hunt of 
hi s, as usual, I suppose/ 

u ‘ He no sooner gets to Paris than he chases off, 
goodness knows where, in search of goodness knows 
what ; we might follow him and investigate/ sug- 
gested the first man. 

“ ‘ No use/ said the* second. ‘ I tried it twice, 
and would you believe it ? he made straight for a 
forlorn little village in the provinces and spent two 
days there among the peasants, trying to learn what 
had become of some old woman who had once lived 
there; but they could tell him nothing of her where- 
abouts, so he gave it up for the time, but the very 
next season when he came here, he did the same 
thing again, and without result ; 1 let it go after 
that; it was not exciting/ 

“ In a few days The Tenor reappeared in Paris to 
gladden the hearts of his friends, but soon set off 
for London, where he led the same life of lavish 
prodigality, and, at the same time, bound all hearts 
to him with the silver chains of his voice. 

“ But one night, returning late from the opera, The 
Tenor met with an accident ; a great excavation had 


153 


been made where some building was about to be 
erected and into this fearful pit the unwary singer 
fell. A hospital was near at hand, and when he 
was lifted out, he was taken there ; after the exam- 
ination, his friends who had been with him when 
he fell wished to take him home with them, but 
the physicians forbade. 

“ ‘ He can live but a few hours,’ they said. ‘ The 
moving would only cause useless suffering.’ 

“ He was frightfully injured, but when he gained 
consciousness the next day, he spoke to the men 
about him and his voice was as clear and sweet as 
it had ever been. 

“ Early on the following morning a woman, old 
and blind, was brought to the same great hospital 
where The Tenor lay dying. She, on her way to the 
little fruit-stand where she sold fruit to the passers- 
by, had fallen into the same excavation from which 
The Tenor had been extricated, and she, too, was 
dying of her injuries. 

“ When physician and nurse had made her as com- 
fortable as possible in her little cot and had partly 
relieved her pain, she began to tell her story to the 
nurse. 

“ The latter, knowing that a little sympathy was 
all that she could now give to the suffering woman, 
listened patiently to the sorrowful story. 


154 


u ‘ I have not always lived in this dreadful Lon- 
don/ the old woman said. ‘ Oh, no, once I had a 
dear little home in the country where I lived with 
my little son, my Armand, and oh, we were so 
happy ! Armand was such a pretty child, and he 
had a beautiful voice and sang well — too well, for, 
one day, a stranger came to our town, and by acci- 
dent, heard my boy sing ; after that he would give 
me no rest until I agreed to let him take Armand 
away with him to London. He said he would have 
him take lessons there, and that my boy would be 
a great singer some day, and then come back to me. 
But I never saw him again — my little Armand. I 
never even heard of him, or whether he could really 
sing. I waited for him for ten years, thinking he 
would surely come back to his old home, but he 
never came/ 

“ The poor old woman stopped and gasped for 
breath, then went on. 

“ ‘ He was such a little fellow when he was taken 
away that perhaps he could not find his way home 
again. Well, I watched and waited and prayed for 
ten long, long, years and then I came to London to 
find him. I was very poor, but I sold fruit on one 
of the busiest streets, thinking that some day my 
Armand would pass and I would see him, but he 


155 


never came, though I watched another ten years ; 
then, last year, I went blind, from too much crying, 
perhaps, and now I would not know even if he 
passsed ; that is the hardest of all, to think that he 
might pass and I not know, after all these years ! 
Oh, I should so love to see my Armand just once 
before 1 go, and hear him sing! I have always 
loved music for his sake, and before I went blind 
I used to go to church to hear the singing, but now 
T cannot find my way there, and I know 1 will 
never hear a song again on earth.’ 

“ Slowly, brokenly, the story had been told, and 
the eyes of the nurse were filled with tears. What 
a sad little history it was! 

“ At intervals during the day, the little blind 
woman, still dreaming of her lost boy, would mur- 
mur : 

“ ‘ Oh, if I could only get to church again to hear 
the singing ! ’ 

“ But she knew she never again would leave the 
hospital. 

“ Late in the afternoon, in a comfortable room of 
the hospital, The Tenor was talking to his nurse. 

“ ‘ That beastly hole! ’ he was saying, ‘ it should 
not have been left open ; I believe it has broken 
every bone in my body.’ 


156 




“‘You are not the only one who has cause to 
complain of that hole/ was the answer. ‘A little 
blind fruit-seller was brought here this morning, 
and she, too, had fallen into the same place/ 

‘“And is she, too, dying ?' asked The Tenor, 
sy mpath et ical 1 y . 

“ ‘ She cannot recover/ 

“‘ And can you do nothing for her?' 

“ ‘ Nothing save to ease the pain a little ; she is 
not suffering much now, but she is very restless 
and keeps asking if she cannot go to church once 
more, to hear the singing/ 

“ ‘ Poor soul ! A woman and blind, and to tum- 
ble into that cursed hole!’ 

“ The Tenor was silent for a moment and then — 
“ ‘ Did you say she only wanted to go to church 
to hear the singing? Perhaps / could sing to her. 
If she wants a church for its prayers, I wouldn't be 
able to be of use, but surely I might sing to her/ 
“ ‘ Oh, no/ said the nurse, hastily, ‘ you cannot 
be moved/ 

“ The Tenor had never been thwarted in all his 
sunny life. 

“ ‘ But I will be moved/ he said. ‘ Tell the doc- 
tor I must be carried in to sing to the old blind 
beggar/ 


157 


“He was unable to lift hand or foot, but he was so 
imperious in his demand that at last the doctor was 
summoned. 

“ ‘ It will prove fatal to you ! ’ he told The Tenor, 
almost roughly, being irritated by his persistence. 

“ ‘ All right, let the poor old woman have my last 
fifteen minutes, if she can get any pleasure out of 
them.’ 

“ And so, with dire misgivings, they bore him into 
the great ward. 

“ ‘ I have gone to my concerts in many a carriage, 
but never in one like this/ said The Tenor, as they 
carried him ; he laughed as he said it, and if there 
was any bitterness iu the words no one guessed it. 

“ ‘ To think that my last concert should be in a 
hospital ward ; my last song to an old blind woman ; 
/, who have sung to kings!’ 

“ He may have had some such thought, but if it 
were so, he gave no hint of it, nor did he utter one 
word of complaint while being moved, and only 
the doctors guessed what it cost him. 

“He, with his cheery smile, his brilliant eyes and 
his gleaming, yellow hair, came like a sunbeam into 
that gloomy ward. 

“ Some there had known him by sight, or per- 
chance had heard him sing, and all tried to catch a 


158 


glimpse of him as he passed, while a whisper went 
around : 

“ ‘ It is The Tenor — The Tenor.’ 

“ He heard it and smiled, well pleased that his 
reputation had preceded him — even here. He was 
placed on a cot opposite that of the old fruit-seller. 

“ ‘ I have come to sing to you/ he told her, 
genially. ‘ They thought you might like it.’ 

“ Then when he had become somewhat rested, the 
nurse propped him up on his pillows and he began 
his song. 

“ What irony of fate prompted him in his selec- 
tion ? 

“ It was but a simple, old-fashioned song he sang, 
but he had set it to music of his own composing 
and had sung it in all the capitals of Europe, and 
everywhere it had added to his fame — a dear old 
song which echoed the universal cry of the weary 
human soul — 

“ 4 Backward, turn backward, oh Time, in your flight. 
Make me a child again, just for to-night! 

Mother, come back from the echoless shore, 

Take me again to your heart as of yore ; 

Kiss from my forehead the furrows of care, 

Smooth the few silver threads out of my hair — 

Over my slumbers your loving w r atch keep — 

Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep ! ’ 


159 


“ Oh, the pathos of it ! Oh, the tender, pleading 
voice ! 

“ Ere the first verse was finished, every heart was 
filled with a homesick yearning ; every eye was 
moist. 

“ The doctors and nurses stood in groups, and the 
patients were propped up in their cots, the better to 
hear the melodious voice; the better to see the 
exaltation in the uplifted face of the singer. 

“ ‘ Backward, flow backward, oh tide of years ! 

I am so weary of toil and of tears ! 

Toil without recompense — tears all in vain — 

Take them and give me my childhood again! 

I have grown weary of dust and decay, 

Weary of flinging my soul- wealth away — 

Weary of sowing for others to reap ; 

Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep ! ’ 

“ Gone were the hospital wards ; gone were the 
pain and poverty, gone the clatter and clang of the 
city streets, back — back went each heart to its 
childhood — its free, unfettered childhood ! And 
some there were who dreamt of blue skies and 
fleecy clouds, of country lanes and orchards in 
which birds were singing. 

“ In each heart a mother was enshrined, though in 
many cases her influences had not lasted through- 


160 


out all the years of misery through which these 
sufferers had lived, ere, sin-stained, storm-driven, 
and weary, they had drifted, one by one, into this 
quiet hospital — to die. 

“‘Tired of the hollow, the base, the untrue, 

Mother, oh mother, my heart calls for you ! 

Many a summer the grass lias grown green, 

Blossomed and faded— our faces between— 

Yet with strong yearning and passionate pain, 

Long I to-night for your presence again ; 

Come from the silence so long and so deep — 

Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep ! ’ 

“ Never, never had The Tenor sung as he was 
singing now ; never had that glorious voice been so 
nearly divine ; the angels themselves were listening, 
and waiting to welcome him to their celestial choir; 
he had never learned to pray, this courted Tenor, 
but surely, surely, he was winning heaven with his 
song! Two more verses he sang, and during that 
time, in a dim corner of the ward, the “ golden 
bowl ” of one human life was broken, and the soul, 
on the waves of song, was borne upward to its God ; 
a nurse drew a screen about the bed, and the still- 
ness was unbroken save by the singing of the dying 
Tenor. Then came the last verse and the strong 


161 




voice was growing very, very faint, bat still it was 
sublimely sweet. 

“ ‘ Never hereafter to wake — or to weep — 

Rock me — to sleep — mother — rock me — to sleep!’ 

“ The song was finished, and there came an awful, 
awful silence. 

“The nurse gently laid The Tenor down, closed 
the beautiful eyes, and softly touched the Avaving 
hair; then she turned to the little blind woman, 
Avho had listened to the song in a state of ecstasy, 
and whispered, with a break in her voice: 

“ ‘ The Tenor has been called away . 7 

“ There was no need to search the records for the 
name of the famous Tenor; but when, a few hours 
later, the little blind fruit-seller died, some one 
looked in the hospital register for her name and 
found it — her name, too, was Vingtoll.” 


162 


CHAPTER V. 


The General began his third story with a dedica- 
tion. 


CUBA COLUMBUS. 


“ To those who in these days of advanced civiliza- 
tion still have a lingering fondness for old tradition 
and superstition, and to those who would fain know 
something of the ideas of right and justice prevail- 
ing in days long dead, I bring this little tale. ” 
******** 

“ Prescott has told us that it was when Columbus 
reached Hispaniola on his third voyage in 1493 
that he found the affairs of the colony in great con- 
fusion owing to an insurrection having been raised 
against his brother, Bartholomew, to whom he had 
intrusted the government of the colony during his 
absence. 

“ Columbus used every means in his power to sup- 
press this rebellion, and at last succeeded in patch- 
ing up a reconciliation by making many conces- 
sions. 


163 


“ Among these was the grant of large tracts of 
land to the rebels, with permission to the holders 
to employ a given number of the natives in its cul- 
tivation. But among those to whom land was 
granted were some of the better class of settlers, 
and when in 1511, Diego, the second son of Colum- 
bus, colonized Cuba, plantations on that island 
were granted to the two families of which our story 
treats. 

“ These plantations were separated by a small 
brook, a beautiful stream of water, which went 
dancing and tumbling along through sunshine and 
shadow and which was destined to play an im- 
portant part in several lives. 

“ On one side of the brook dwelt Diego Mendez, 
his wife and son, little Francesco, and on the other 
side were Nicolas de Valendo, wife and infant 
daughter, Dolores. Dolores was a very delicate 
child, and there seemed little chance of her growing 
to womanhood. 

“ One day while walking through the woodland 
near the brook, the mother of Dolores came across 
a large stone standing upright and having a large 
hole through it. 

“ These stones are found in many places — India, 
Ireland, England, Scotland and other countries. 


164 


They are not uncommon in India, and devout per- 
sons pass through them in order to be regenerated.. 
If the hole be too small to pass through, they put 
the hand or foot through, which answers the same 
purpose. 

“ Children are passed through them to cure dis- 
ease, or for much the same reasons as those that 
made the ancient idolators pass their children 
through their consecrated fires, believing that those 
who had gone through acquired thereby a greater 
degree of purity than others possessed, and Maimon- 
ides tells us the Canaanites believed that such chil- 
dren should not die an untimely death. 

“ This passing through stones to recover or secure 
health is probably of Druid origin, because they 
used to pass their cattle through a hollow tree for 
like superstitious reasons. Stephens, in his book 
‘ Yucatan/ describes a game of the ancient Ameri- 
cans, which was engaged in as a religious ceremony, 
that of throwing a ball through a holed stone ; and 
may not the game of modern Americans, which 
consists of throwing a small bag of beans through a 
hole be a remnant of this old ceremony? 

“But Juanina, the mother of Dolores, probably 
knew nothing of origin or ancient custom ; she only 
knew that in her own loved land the passing of a 


165 


sick child through a holed stone was supposed to 
cure it, and, consequently, she was delighted at 
finding one here in this strange new land. 

“That evening, as soon as it was dusk, Juanina, 
bearing little Dolores in her arms and accompanied 
by Issa Ovando, a friend and neighbor, crept 
through the underbrush to the holed stone on the 
bank of the brook which was just a short distance 
from the house. The two women, filled with ex- 
citement, hastily put the child into the hole of the 
stone. To their utter consternation, Dolores stuck 
in the hole and could not be drawn through ; then 
they tried to draw her back, but in vain ; there she 
hung with her chubby little body fast held in the 
stone. Night was fast coming on ; the stars came 
out and the moon shone on the dancing water of 
the little brook which was crushing itself in soft 
white foam against the stones, but the great forest 
was dark and in it lurked danger ; velvet-shod ani- 
mals stalked through its shadows in search of prey. 
The teakwood, satinwood, ebony trees and palms 
loomed up on every side and soft winds, sweet with 
the odor of tropical flowers, filtered through the 
dense forest. But the two frantic women noticed 
nothing save that night was coming; night, with 
its ‘ horror of great darkness.* 

11 


166 


“ Juanina worked and then Issa, then both to- 
gether, but Dolores was wedged fast. Dolores 
began to cry and Juanina joined in and cried, too. 
Then Issa tried to take off the child’s clothing and 
by thus diminishing her size, allow her to escape ; 
but she could not reach the fastenings, so leaving 
the distracted mother with the child, she hurried 
to the house and soon returned with a knife to cut 
the clothing and a bottle of milk to quiet the child. 
She began, energetically, to cut off’ the clothes 
while Juanina sat on the ground at the other side 
of the stone and held the milk for Dolores to drink. 
Issa had no easy task, but at last it was accom- 
plished and poor little Dolores was drawn forward 
through the stone and thus ensured long life and 
good health, according to the old superstition. 
Just at present, though, she was very tired and 
much bruised and was glad to be carried home. 

“ All through the long golden days on that beauti- 
ful island, Francesco and Dolores played together, 
crossing to each other’s homes by means of a rude 
bridge which Nicolas had constructed across the 
brook. 

“ So the days and the years passed and the chil- 
dren grew apace. 


167 


“ Francesco’s mother died, but he and his father, 
Diego, lived on together in their rude home. 

“ One day a slave girl belonging to Nicolas de 
Valendo gave birth to a child while on the planta- 
tion of Diego Mendez. Diego claimed the child as 
his slave, it having been born on his land; but 
Nicolas, owning the mother, also claimed the child. 
A bitter quarrel ensued and all communication be- 
tween the two plantations was strictly prohibited, 
but sometimes Francesco and Dolores braved the 
wrath of their fathers and contrived to meet. At 
length the case was laid before the governor, who 
decided that the child belonged to the owner of the 
land on which it was born. Consequently, the lit- 
tle slave remained in the possession of Diego Men- 
dez. But the breach between the families was not 
healed and every petty annoyance widened it. 

“ Then the merry little brook which was the recog- 
nized boundary line, got in its evil work ; little by 
little it changed its course, running closer and 
closer to the home of Nicolas de Valendo. Each 
year it cut a little off his land and gave it to his 
neighbor, Diego. Its original bed filled up and 
left no trace. Endless were the contentions caused 
by the freaks of the little stream, for Diego claimed 
and cultivated all the land on his side of the brook, 


168 


maintaining that it was still the boundary line. 
One night Juanina lay dying, with Nicolas and 
Dolores watching beside her. It was the rainy 
season and the little brook had risen very high and 
was tumbling and boiling close to the house ; sud- 
denly, the watchers at the death-bed were startled 
by a loud crash ; the water had undermined the 
house and the timbers were giving way. But 
Nicolas and his daughter were quick to act; wrap- 
ping up the dying Juanina as best they could, they 
carried her out into the rain ; Nicolas bore her in 
his strong arms while Dolores brought a torch. 
But the torch was quickly extinguished by the wind 
and they struggled on in the darkness toward a 
dilapidated little cabin once tenanted by their 
slaves; the slaves were all gone now, Nicolas having 
been obliged to sell them after the brook had robbed 
him of his land. 

“ Finding their way by the frequent flashes of 
lightning, Nicolas and Dolores pressed on. They 
heard their house fall with a crash into the rushing, 
foaming brook, but still they hurried on in the 
blinding rain, stumbling over fallen trees and losing 
their way occasionally. At last they reached the 
deserted cabin and Nicolas gently put his burden 
down and uncovered her face, but the soul had fled. 


169 


It had gone oat on the wings of the storm, through 
the darkness of that wild night. 

“ In the morning the neighbors came, among them 
Francesco, and they buried Juanina in the great 
forest. Nicolas and his daughter went back to the 
spot where their home had been ; the brook still 
foamed and fretted and on its banks w r ere scattered 
the ruins of the house. Nicolas, as he looked, swore 
dark Spanish oaths, and vowed he would have 
justice if justice there were in this new world. 

“ Once again the governor on the mainland was 
called upon to decide between the claims of Nicolas 
de Valendo and his neighbor, Diego Mendez. 
Cuba, ever since its colonization, has been ruled by 
a g^vernor-captain-general (residing on the main- 
land), whose authority for his term of office is 
indisputable. He is appointed by the reigning 
Spanish sovereign for three or five years, and need 
account only to that sovereign. 

“ The law suit of which I write came up for trial 
in 1538, and the governor at that time was Fer- 
nando De Soto, afterwards famous for the discovery 
of the Mississippi River. While the suit was pend- 
ing Nicolas and Dolores lived in Trinidad, and 
sometimes Francesco came and tried to win a few 
kind words from Dolores. Neither Nicholas nor 


170 


Diego were aware of those visits nor of the love 
which prompted them. 

“ Long and bitter was the struggle for the land 
and at last the governor gave his decree : The 
brook was, as it had always been, the dividing line 
between the two plantations, so that Diego was 
entitled to all the land on his side of the brook ; but 
Nicolas being in nowise to blame, ought not to lose 
all his land just because an erratic and mischievous 
stream chose to change its course every year; there- 
fore, let one man hold the land of both, including 
the house of Diego, for five years and then the other 
man should have it for five years, and so on to the 
end of time, or until the original channel of the 
brook, the original boundary line, should be dis- 
covered. In awarding the plantations to one man 
for five years (his own term of office) and then let- 
ting it become the property of the other claimant. 
De Soto made an odd and hitherto unheard of 
decision, but his decree was absolute. And then 
he did another strange thing. The question arose, 

‘ Which claimant shall first possess the land ? ’ 
All day the governor discussed the matter, listen- 
ing, patiently, to the pleas set forth by Nicolas and 
Diego; all night he puzzled over the solution of 
the difficulty, and when the morning came on which 


171 


he must decide, he walked into the council cham- 
ber, where the two men and their friends were 
awaiting him, and in utter desperation said : 

“ * I cannot decide, but let the first person who 
passes this way say to which man first possession 
shall be given, and by that decision abide.’ 

“ Those assembled looked at each other blankly. 
Was the governor jesting? He answered the un- 
spoken question by leading the way to the door and 
the rest quickly gathered around him. They had 
not waited long before a group of children came 
running towards them, and both Nicolas and Diego 
scowled and swore: Was such a matter to be left 
to the judgment of a child? 

“ But the children grew frightened at the body of 
stern-looking men and ran back without passing. 
Then they all watched eagerly for the coming 
arbitrator; Francesco, meanwhile, stealing loving 
glances at pretty Dolores, who clung to her father’s 
hand. 

“ Presently a gay young planter came riding 
towards them and the heart of Nicolas gave a 
bound of hope, for, surely, this merry fellow who 
whistled and sang as he rode, would appreciate a 
pretty woman and award the land to the father of 
Dolores. 


172 


“ Nearer and nearer rode the planter, but just 
before reaching the door of the council chamber he 
dismounted and entered the adjoining house. Poor 
Nicolas was greatly disappointed, but soon a new 
form appeared in the distance. This time it was a 
poor, black slave, bent almost double beneath the 
load of wood on his back ; straight on he came, and 
the waiting group grumbled and showed their dis- 
gust in their faces; a slave to decide such an im- 
portant matter ; the governor must be mad ! 

“ As the slave was passing, De Soto stopped him, 
and, when the worn, black face was turned, they 
all saw that the slave was blind. 

“ Even De Soto was nonplussed at such an unex- 
pected turn of affairs, but he had said the first 
passer-by should be the judge, and here was the 
judge — a slave and blind! Nicolas was in despair, 
for the beauty of Dolores would avail nothing now. 

“ De Soto explained the case briefly to the slave, 
and the others stood in utter silence, awaiting his 
verdict. They had not long to wait. 

“‘Let the man who has the daughter have the 
land/ he said. 

“ Even in that black, crooked body, with distorted 
limbs and sightless eyes, dwelt the spirit of chiv- 


173 


airy ; the desire to shield and protect and provide 
a home for any woman in need of it; he knew not 
whether she were young and fair or as world-worn 
as liimself. r 


CHAPTER VI. 

“ Nothing remained then but for Diego and his 
son, Francesco, to move out of their house and 
allow Nicolas and Dolores to enter into possession. 

“ These changes were quickly made and Diego, 
with bitter and vengeful heart, took up his resi- 
dence with Francesco in Trinidad. Francesco was 
secretly pleased at the way the suit had terminated, 
being well satisfied to give up his property and 
start afresh in the world, if only Dolores might 
have a home. 

“The five years passed away and the love of 
Francesco and Dolores was deeply rooted in their 
hearts, while in the hearts of Diego and Nicolas a 
steady hatred held sway. They were old men now, 
but the fires of resentment burned as fiercely as 
ever. As the day drew near on which Nicolas and 
Dolores were to go out into the world homeless, 


174 


Nicolas grew gloomy and despondent. He had 
lived in comfort for five years, but had saved noth- 
ing to help him in the struggle for existence, which 
was now to come. The plantation, with all its re- 
sources, reverted to Diego, and he and Dolores 
were beggars. Day after day he brooded over his 
trouble and then the light of reason fled and he no 
longer worried. He followed Dolores about like a 
child and watched her preparations for departure 
with eager, uncomprehending eyes. 

“ Diego, knowing nothing of the misfortune of his 
enemy (for Francesco never dared mention his 
name) was all anxiety to return to his home and 
turn Nicolas out of it. 

“ As soon as the eventful day dawned, Diego set 
oif for the plantation, insisting on the reluctant 
Francesco going with him. When they reached 
the house, Diego strode in without waiting to be 
asked to enter. Before Dolores could speak, old 
Nicolas stepped forward with a smile and held out 
his hand to Diego : 

Welcome, my friend/ he said. ‘ It is long 
since you have visited us.’ 

“ Then, as Diego made no answer, but stood gazing 
at the poor, maddened face with surprise, horror 
and pity in his own, Nicolas went on : 


175 


“ i You must sit down and eat with us; we have 
not much, but it is enough, and you are very wel- 
come. ? 

“All the long years of ill feeling, all the old 
grievances, the two law suits and the bitter, bitter 
enmity were forgotten, vanished utterly from his 
mind, and only the remembrance of the early 
friendship and neighborly feeling remained. 

“‘I think my wife, Juanina, will be in pres- 
ently/ he rambled on, while the other three stood 
in perfect silence. ‘ Go tell your mother, Dolores, 
that Diego is here with his son. How your boy 
has grown, friend ! ’ 

“ Then Diego sat down and let the great tears 
course down his aged cheeks, crying like a child at 
the utter overthrow of his old friend and compan- 
ion, and Francesco took Dolores in his arms and 
kissed her, saying : 

“ ‘ You shall not go, Dolores; stay and be my 
wife.’ 

“ And Dolores and her father stayed, and Dolores 
became the wife of Francesco with Diego’s full con- 
sent and by his desire. 

“ Nicolas died in a short time and the following 
year Diego, too, was borne to the grave. Shortly 
after his death, Francesco set to work to build a 


176 


new house ; the site selected was half a mile east of 
the house in which he and his wife were now 
living ; the house which Diego had built and in 
which he died. Much of the forest had been 
cleared during the five years Nicolas had been in 
possession, so that all the old land marks were 
obliterated. 

“ The brook, which had wrought so much trouble, 
had changed its course so often that it was now 
some distance from its original bed; just where 
that bed had been no one knew, as it was quite 
filled up. Francesco and Dolores were very proud 
of their new home and very happy in it until their 
child was born ; then trouble came. It all arose 
about the naming of the boy, Dolores wishing to 
name him for her father, Nicolas, and Francesco 
for Diego. The difference of opinion was at first a 
subject for jest, but soon developed into a deadly 
contention, owing to the fierce Spanish determina- 
tion not to be baffled, that coursed through the 
veins of both Francesco and Dolores. Day after 
day the trouble grew ; the hapless child brought 
clouds instead of sunshine into the house. Some- 
times the old love resumed its sway, and for a time 
peace and a semblance of happiness reigned, but 


177 


this state of things was of short duration. One day 
a mischief-making neighbor came in : 

Isn’t that child named yet?’ he asked, for all 
the neighbors knew the cause of the trouble between 
Francesco and his wife. i You had better let the 
governor settle the case/ he went on, disagreeably. 
‘ That is the way your fathers did ; they kept the 
governor busy settling their quarrels.’ 

“To the man’s surprise, Francesco said, turning 
to Dolores : ‘ The suggestion is a good one ; sup- 

pose we do leave the governor to decide to whom 
the child belongs; if to you, then you will have the 
right to name him; in the other case, I will name 
him.’ Dolores, after long meditation, agreed, and 
the governor set the day for the hearing of the case. 

“ Day after day, during the month preceding the 
day of trial, Dolores wandered through forest and 
field, searching for some old land-mark that would 
reveal the original course of the brook — the 
dividing line between her father’s land, now hers, 
and the plantation of Diego, which his son Fran- 
cesco had inherited. Her woman’s wit told her 
that in the finding of such a landmark lay her sole 
claim to her child. She spent long hours of weary 
walking, with the boy clasped in her arms, whis- 


178 


pering to him, now and then, J You are mine, 
mine, mine ! ’ 

“ But how to prove it — there lay her trouble ; the 
forests were cleared, and of her own old home not a 
vestige remained. She remembered just how close 
to the brook it had been, and remembered, too, a 
grand old tree that had stood just on the brink of 
the brook ; but house and brook and tree alike 
were gone. 

“ One night, in the middle of the night, a recol- 
lection came to her of something else that had 
stood on the brook’s bank and on her side of the 
brook — the holed stone through which she had 
been put when an infant to ensure her good health. 
During her childhood her mother had often shown 
her the stone and told her the story of her passing 
through it ; how she had stuck fast in it and had 
had her clothes cut off by Issa Ovando to release 
her. Issa Ovando, an old, old woman now, still 
lived near, and to her Dolores went, but she could 
not tell where to find the stone, though she per- 
fectly remembered the night Dolores had passed 
through it. It had sunken a good deal afterwards, 
she said, and the last time she saw it, it was not far 
above ground. 


179 


“ But Dolores would not give up ; so much de- 
pended on her proving her right to her child, 
for she knew Francesco's vindictive spirit, and 
that if the child were awarded to him he would 
never again allow her to have control of him, 
even in the smallest matter. So she took old 
Issa with her, and half leading, half carrying 
her, went carefully over the ground where she 
thought the stone must have stood ; but all to no 
purpose; not a trace of it remained. Only one day 
now was left before that on which she and Fran- 
cesco were to appear before the governor. The 
baby, on that morning, was creeping all about the 
house ; suddenly Dolores missed him and hastily 
began to look for him. He had gotten out of the 
door, and the house being raised quite high from 
the ground, had found his way under it. There 
Dolores found him, and there, uncovered by the 
house builders, she found something else. When 
she came out, her eyes were shining and she whis- 
pered passionately to the child : 1 Now you are 
mine.' 

“ At this time the governor's headquarters were in 
Havana, and thither w T ent Francesco, Dolores, and 
such of their neighbors as were required to testify, 
even old Issa Ovando being taken along. Frau- 


180 


cesco and Dolores were each to state the case and 
lay their several claims to the child before the gov- 
ernor. Francesco began by inquiring whether ver- 
dicts rendered by former governors still held, and 
was told they did. Then, that being the case, he 
claimed the child under the verdict rendered years 
before in favor of his father, Diego, by which Diego 
gained possession of the slave child born on his 
plantation ; * A child belongs to the man on whose 
land it was born/ so ran the old record of the ver- 
dict. 

“ ‘ But that child was a slave ! ’ cried Dolores. 

u ‘ There is no distinction made in the record; 
there is no saving clause/ said the governor, 
sternly. 

“ And Francesco glanced triumphantly, at Do- 
lores. This was a point in his favor. 

“ ‘ I also claim the child under the verdict ren- 
dered by Governor De Soto in the land case/ 
Francesco continued. ‘ He awarded the land to 
my father and my wife’s father to be held in turn. 
Both of them are now dead, but we, their heirs, 
hold the land in the same way — each for five years. 
My wife and her father held the land for five years 
and then my father and I came into possession ; 
my father, as I have said, is dead, but I have held 


181 


the land only three years ; therefore, I was owner 
of the land at the time the child was born ; it was 
born on my land and you have said that the old 
verdict held good.’ 

“ The governor called up some of the neighbors, 
who all testified to the truth of Francesco’s state- 
ment. They all knew that Dolores and her father 
had lived on the plantation for five years and then 
given it over to Diego and Francesco. They also 
gave the date on which the transfer took place, 
proving that Francesco had held the land only 
three years and was therefore owner at the time of 
the child’s birth, which event they well remem- 
bered and could name the day on which it took 
place. 

“ After they had given their testimony and only 
Dolores remained, the governor sat a long time in 
silence. Francesco was feeling much elated and 
considered the victory already his, but when he 
looked at Dolores, she smiled calmly, and seemed 
in no wise disturbed or uneasy. 

“At last the governor turned to Dolores : ‘ This 
evidence seems so conclusive,’ he said, ‘that I 
really do not see what claim you can have, but — 
speak on.’ 


12 


182 


“ Then Dolores rose to her feet : 1 The original 
verdict in the case of the slave child had, as you 
just told me, no saving clause, but the verdict in 
the second case — the land case — did have a saving 
clause. 

“ < Governor Dc Soto awarded the land to Diego 
Mendez and my father, Nicolas de Valendo, to be 
held five years by one then five years by the other, 
to the end of time, or until the original channel of 
the brook — the original boundary line — should be dis- 
covered ; is not that the way the record reads ? ’ 

“ The governor hastily searched the records be- 
fore him : ‘ Yes, you are right/ he said. 

“ Francesco threw back his head and smiled 
scornfully, but the next words caused him to spring 
erect. 

“ ‘ The original boundary line has been found/ 
said Dolores, quietly. 

“ Intense excitement prevailed ; Francesco was 
wild with surprise and rage. 

“ Then Dolores told in her simple, straight- 
forward fashion of the finding of the holed stone 
directly beneath the new house, the house in which 
the child had been born ; and old Issa came for- 
ward and told of the passing of Dolores through 
the stone in her infancy, and testified (which testi- 


183 


mony the other neighbors supported) that the 
holed stone had stood on the eastern bank of the 
brook’s original channel, on the plantation of 
Nicolas de Valendo. 

“ When the channel filled up, the stone, already 
much sunken, had been completely buried, and 
Francesco, in building his new home, had changed 
its site and had built the house directly over the 
holed stone, thus building it on the plantation of 
Nicolas de Valendo. 

“ In the process of building, the top of the stone 
had been uncovered, and as it was a white stone 
and the top was rounded, Dolores had at once 
recognized it on the day she had found the child 
playing beneath the house, and knew then that the 
house stood on what had been her father’s land and 
the child, having been born there, was hers — hers 
to name, to teach, to govern and tend. And so the 
governor decided, after sending trustworthy men 
to unearth the stone and thus prove the truth of 
Dolores’ statement. 

“ When the governor had pronounced his ver- 
dict, awarding the child to Dolores, Francesco 
strode angrily to the door; but Dolores rose in 
his path, and with womanly pity for his disappoint- 
ment and something of the old-time love in her 


184 


eyes, said, gently : ‘ Shall we ask the governor to 
name our baby, dear ? , 

“ Francesco tried to break from her grasp, but 
her strong hand detained him until he was forced 
to look at her pleading, uplifted face, and that, with 
the kindly way in which she had allowed him a 
claim, too, by her gentle ‘ we 9 and ‘ our baby/ 
broke down the barriers of pride and defiance and 
he answered, huskily : ‘ Yes, little wife.’ 

“ The stern-faced governor was somewhat bewil- 
dered by this new demand on him, but, being a man 
of ready wit, saw that to have a stranger bestow the 
much - disputed name would be the best way to 
establish harmony, and readily agreed to find a 
name for the baby. But he did not find it an easy 
task; of course neither Diego nor Nicolas, the dis- 
puted names, would do ; to name the child Fran- 
cesco might please both the father and mother 
— and, it might not; he could not tell. 

“ The room was filled with people waiting the 
outcome of this strange trial, and they were grow- 
ing impatient. Then the distracted governor 
thought of giving the child the name of its island 
home. But which name shall it be? At that time 
it was called Ave Maria, in honor of the Virgin, 
but that name would hardly do for a boy. The 


island had been first named Juanina in honor of 
Prince John, the son of Ferdinand and Isabella, 
the Spanish sovereigns who had enabled Columbus 
to make his famous voyage. But Juanina had been 
the name of Dolores’ mother, and Francesco might 
object, as he had objected to having the child 
named for Dolores’ father. Then he thought of 
Fernandina, which had been the second name of 
the island, and of Santiago, the name given it in 
honor of the patron saint of Spain. One after 
another the governor rejected the names, until at 
last he thought of the original name of the island, 
that by which it had been called by the natives at 
the time of its discovery, Cuba. 

“The people were growing very impatient and 
the governor-general, too, was weary ; so rising, he 
said, briefly : ‘ Name the baby Cuba Columbus.’ 

“And in after years, the island itself took its 
native name, and is called Cuba even to this day.” 


186 


CHAPTER VII. 

It was Strang who handed the old man a cork 
bearing “ Miss Robinson ” on its side. We had 
an idea we were to hear a love story connected with 
the unknown Miss Robinson, but our hopes* or 
fears, were soon dispelled. 

“ Ah, yes, Miss Robinson,” laughed the Gen- 
eral. “ How I wish you fellows could have known 
her; she was an old maid who wore ringlets and 
eye-glasses ; she was, in appearance, a typical old 
spinster, but she had a keen sense of humor and a 
kind heart. 

“ I met her at a summer resort ; she spent 
every summer at some such place and had many 
amusing experiences, which she used to relate with 
a good deal of gusto. One of her stories still lin- 
gers in my memory; I think I shall give it in her 
own words, and call it 


MRS. BENNETT. 

“ I am an old maid, and as firm, proper and 
peculiar as all old maids are — or are supposed to 


187 


be — but there is enough 'of the old leaven in me to 
enable me to enjoy the humor of an incident that 
occurred at a summer resort last June. 

“ It was a very quiet place among the moun- 
tains, and was patronized chiefly by overworked 
mothers .and underpaid school teachers. When I 
arrived I found the hotel in the possession of a 
Sunday-school convention. There was quite a 
number of the teachers, masters and pastors whom 
we are bidden in our prayer books to obey. They 
took very kindly to me and made me one of them 
in all their excursions; also, in all their Sunday- 
school meetings. 

u One of the women was called home by illness 
in her family, and, just before leaving, told us that 
a friend of hers, a Mrs. Bennett, was coming the 
following Tuesday, and as she would not be there 
to receive her, she hoped the rest of us would take 
charge of her and make her feel at home among us. 
She said the stranger was a widow, having recently 
lost her husband in a railroad accident, the horri- 
ble details of which Mrs. Brown gave us in the 
most thrilling style and so wrought upon our feel- 
ings that we were all anxious to take the poor, 
bereft widow to our hearts and console her. When 
Tuesday came there was quite a delegation drawn 


188 


up on the veranda to meet Mrs. Bennett when she 
arrived from the station. As the carriage drew up 
at the door, a slender little woman clad in black 
stepped out and our hearts all beat with sympathy. 
We gave her a cordial welcome, and Mrs. Jones 
grasped both her hands effusively and said : 

“‘We are so glad to see you, my dear; Mrs. 
Brown told us you would be here to-day and was 
so sorry not to meet you herself, but she was called 
home ; however, we mean to do the best we can to 
make you comfortable and happy among us/ 

“ The new comer looked greatly surprised and 
rather dazed, but thanked us very prettily for our 
kind welcome, and, pleading fatigue, retired to her 
own room. 

“ When she had vanished, we proceeded to dis- 
cuss her and to express our first impressions of her : 

“‘Poor little thing !’ said Mrs. Smith. ‘She 
looked so white and ill; her husband’s tragic death 
must have been a great shock to her/ 

“ ‘ Yes/ I replied, ‘ she hardly seemed to under- 
stand what we said to her; she looked almost 
stunned/ 

“At supper time the stranger appeared again. 
She wore a dainty white cap, which concealed her 
hair entirely except a few curls on her forehead, 


189 


and, to our unutterable horror, these curls were 
quite white ! Great, indeed, must have been the 
shock the poor little thing had sustained. She be- 
came the pet of the house, all of us doing our best 
to keep her amused. She was very quiet and de- 
mure and talked but little. 

u Gradually, the idea gained ground among us 
that the little widow’s troubles had affected her 
mind ; she made such queer speeches sometimes. 

“ We could never get her to speak of her hus- 
band or of his dreadful death, though we all tried 
in our various ways. 

“ I talked to her for an hour of railroad acci- 
dents, telling of several recent ones; but, although 
she listened with apparent interest, she told me 
nothing. Once Mrs. Jones said to her : 

“ ‘ The loss of a husband is a terrible thing, my 
dear.’ 

u But she merely answered : 

“ ‘ Yes, I should think so,’ and looked with the 
greatest commiseration at Mrs. Jones, as though it 
was that lady who had been bereft. 

“ Another time Mrs. Smith asked her if she were 
resigned, to which she replied : 

“ ‘ No, they have not asked me to, yet.’ 


190 


“ After that there could be no further doubt as 
to the state of Mrs. Bennett’s mind. So we became 
very uneasy about her, and as my room was next 
to hers, I persuaded her to leave the door between 
us open at night, so I could go to her in case she 
needed me. 

“ One evening, having a bad headache, I retired 
to bed very early and was lying quite still in the 
darkness, when the door opening from the hall into 
Mrs. Bennett’s room opened and she went in and 
struck a light. The communicating door was open 
and I could see quite plainly all that transpired in 
her room, but before I could make my presence 
known, I was so petrified by what I saw that I was 
rendered quite speechless. 

“ The first thing Mrs. Bennett did was to throw 
off her dainty white cap and — oh, horrors ! All her 
beautiful white hair went with it, showing her head 
with closely shingled hair, and the hair was brown ! 
The next thing she did was so astounding that even 
to this day I cannot describe it, but I saw first one 
little foot and then the other fly into the air, and I 
am sure, quite sure her slipper struck the chanda- 
lier ! 

“ This sort of thing went on for several min- 
utes, and, at last, I managed to get out of bed and 


191 


to the door of the poor, demented creature’s room. 
She surely had gone quite mad. She gave a little 
start when she saw me and sat down on the bed, 
panting for breath. 

“ i I did not know you were in there, Miss Rob- 
inson/ she said, sweetly, ‘ but now that you have 
seen me, I might as well explain that I am a ballet 
dancer and was just trying a few steps to keep in 
practice.’ 

“ A few steps, indeed ! 

“ But what — what does that mean?’ I gasped, 
pointing to the cap and white hair lying on the 
bed. 

“ ‘ Oh, that — ’ she said, lightly. ‘ W ell, you see, 
I have just gotten over typhoid fever and had to 
have my hair shingled and wear a wig ; I wore a 
brown one, but the day I came here I had to start 
before daylight and in the dim light I got on the 
wrong wig, taking a white one that I had worn on 
the stage; of course I had to keep on wearing it, 
as I had no other with me.’ 

“ ‘ Then you are not Mrs. Bennett at all? ’ 

“ ‘ Why, not exactly, though my stage name is 
Bennett ; Miss Bennett and I never could under- 
stand why all you people have insisted on calling 
me by my stage name.’ 


192 


“ ‘ But you are not the Mrs. Bennett of whom 
Mrs Brown told us,’ I went on. 

“ ‘ Who on earth is Mrs. Brown?’ she asked* 
[ Every one is forever talking to me about Mrs. 
Brown ; I supposed at first she was some one who 
had seen me on the stage and had heard I was 
coming here, but, when I got to know all these 
people, I found they had never even seen a stage 
or a ballet dancer, so I just kept still.’ 

“ ‘ And you never lost your husband in a railroad 
accident?’ I persisted. 

“ At this she fell over on the bed and laughed 
and laughed until she cried. 

“ ‘ Goodness, no ! I never had one to lose. 

“ ‘ So that is what all those heart-rending anec- 
dotes of railroad wrecks meant. I attributed them 
to a peculiar penchant for horrors possessed by 
many good and pious people. You have all been 
a perfect mystery to me. I begin to understand 
now. But I cannot stay here any longer ; I tried 
to stick it out on account of my health, but it is too 
insufferably dull ; I’m going back to New York.’ 

“ And she went the next day. 

“ A few days later the real Mrs. Bennett, the real 
widow, arrived. She was a large, coarse, over- 
dressed woman with a loud voice and such an 


193 


aggressive air that I thought her husband must 
have been glad that there were railroads in this 
country and — that they sometimes had accidents.” 

Cobb had not been with us on this evening, but, 
just as the story was ended, he came in, and, reel- 
ing a little as he walked, knocked over a chair and 
broke its back. I glanced quickly at our host, ex- 
pecting him to swear in a dozen different languages, 
but, to my surprise, his fine old face took on its 
most saintly expression, and, when he spoke, his 
tone was one of gentlest reproof. 

“ Cobb, my poor young friend, you have been 
drinking ; you shouldn’t do it, for it destroys your 
health and my furniture, and is, no doubt, against 
the wishes of your mother. 

“ Take the advice of an old man, Cobb, and give 
up drinking. 4 Wine is a mocker and strong drink 
is raging.’ Dobson, you may bring in the cham- 
pagne.” 

All this with such perfect gravity that we did 
not dare to laugh ! 


194 


CHAPTER VIII. 

“ I am filled with legendary lore to-night,” said 
the General as we lighted our cigars by his fireside 
one bitterly cold night, and begged, like children, 
for a story : 

THE REDEMPTION OF A SOUE — A LEGEND. 

“ Of all the wild, picturesque and beautiful spots 
in Ohio, the region of the Rocky Fork Creek, in 
Highland county, is, to many people, the most in- 
teresting. It is the most famous resort in this 
vicinity, and the one richest in tradition. Each 
stone has its history ; each cave and glen and spring 
its romance ; the whole place teems with legendary 
lore. 

“ The Rocky Fork Caves have been for many 
years the favorite resort of pleasure seekers. 

“ Hundreds visit them annually. There are 
four large caves and many small ones, all appar- 
ently formed by great masses of rock thrown to- 
gether in the wildest confusion. 


195 


“ The principal cave is the 4 Wet Cave/ so called 
from a spring of cold, clear water situated about 
five hundred feet from its mouth. A copious 
stream flows constantly from this spring and has 
worn a deep channel in the rock. 

44 The cave is one huge chamber, one hundred 
and fifty feet deep, fifty feet wide and from ten to 
twenty feet high. Then there is the 4 Dancing 
Cave/ which is frequently used for dancing or 
dining by the parties visiting this region. It is 
quite light and dry, in direct contrast to the Wet 
Cave, which has to be explored with candles, and 
whose walls and floor are wet and slippery. 

44 The next large cave is the 4 Marble Cave/ to 
reach which requires a climb up a rocky precipice 
of about twenty feet. It has several chambers, all 
of good size and all as white as marble. The 4 Dry 
Cave ’ is situated about a half mile farther up the 
creek. Its entrance is under an immense over- 
hanging cliff Its chambers are level, extend sev- 
eral hundred feet into the hill and are very dry. 

44 Both the Wet Cave and the Dry Cave figure in 
the legend I am about to relate. 

44 Returning to the mouth of the Wet Cave, we 
find a deep gorge, ninety feet deep and almost as 
wide, extending from the cave to the creek, a dis- 


196 


tance of a quarter of a mile ; a tiny stream runs 
through this chasm and dances down to the creek. 
On the high, overhanging cliffs bright wild flowers 
grow, and here and there a small tree finds footing, 
while ferns and vines try their best to cover up the 
rough walls as though ashamed of such rough chis- 
eling; for the walls of rock are thrown together in 
the most haphazard way, evidently having been 
done in mad haste, and this is the manner in which 
the ‘Devil’s Ravine’ was made. 

“ Many, many years ago, a Man was brought to 
this beautiful region by the Devil, in person, who 
offered him, in exchange for his soul, all the land 
he could see from the hill on which they stood ; the 
man was poor, the land was a paradise and the 
temptation was great. 

“ Several times his lips framed the words, ‘ 1 ac- 
cept the bargain/ but his voice refused its office, 
and no sound came forth ; when he did speak it was 
to express a doubt: ‘ How am I to know that you 
will, or can, carry out the contract? Perhaps you 
are not able to bestow the land.’ 

“ ‘ I am able to keep all my promises/ said His 
Satanic Majesty, proudly. ‘ I am all-powerful ; 
there is nothing I cannot do.’ 


197 


“ ‘ Can you cut this hill in two ? ’ asked the Man, 
skeptically, and wishing to gain time to think. 

“ ‘ Yes, yes/ cried the Devil, eagerly, ‘ I can do 
that in less time than a hundred men could do it.’ 

“ ‘ Well, if you will do it in one night, beginning 
at dark and stopping work at the first streak of 
dawn, you may have my soul in exchange for the 
land, but the hill must be cut clear to its base and 
the cut must be as wide as that creek ; if you fail 
I get the land and my soul, too.’ The Man smiled 
as he spoke, for surely even the Devil could not do 
such a thing in so short a time, and the man had 
concluded that by setting the Devil such a task he 
would gain the coveted land and still not lose his 
soul. 

“ But it was a dangerous game. ‘ I’ll do it ! I’ll 
do it ! ’ shouted the Devil, gleefully ; and away he 
ran for his pickaxe, for it was almost time for the 
coming of darkness, and at that time he was to be- 
gin his mighty undertaking. 

“ He reappeared, bearing an immense pickaxe, 
and it being now dark, set to work with a will, 
while the man stood by to watch proceedings. The 
pickaxe was a mighty one, and he who wielded it 
was possessed of superhuman strength. He tore up 
great masses of rock and tossed them about with 
13 


198 


the greatest ease ; one stroke of the pick would tear 
a great cavern in the rock ; giant trees came top- 
pling clown like sapplings ; earth, rock and trees 
were thrown together in inextricable masses, and 
the noise of their falling was as though a mighty 
hurricane were devastating the earth ; and ever as 
he worked, the Devil laughed and shouted glee- 
fully. 

“ And as the ditch grew wider and deeper, the 
surprise and terror of the Man grew more intense. 
He had watched at first with a good deal of sur- 
prise, but little anxiety, but by degrees a horrible 
fear seized him, lest the Devil should really win his 
wager. 

“ Hour after hour passed and still the Devil 
worked on, never stopping for one second from his 
task. 

“ The Man, now thoroughly frightened, called 
out to him : 

“ ‘ Are you never going to stop to rest ?’ 

“ But the Devil only chuckled, and answered : 

“ ‘ There will be time enough to rest by-and-by 
when I have your soul to keep me company/ 

“Then the Man, hoping to escape the unearthly 
din, and almost wild with fear, ran madly away, 
crying aloud in his misery: 


199 


“ ‘ Oh my soul ! I have lost my soul ! I have 
lost my soul ! ’ 

“ When he had gone about a half mile from the 
scene of the Devil’s work, and had stopped to rest 
for a moment, he heard a voice near him, saying : 

“ 1 1, too, have lost my soul/' 

“ Looking about to see whence the voice pro- 
ceeded, he discovered a large cave beneath an over- 
hanging cliff (the Dry Cave) and within the cave 
lay a man chained to the rock. He was in a dying 
condition and almost too weak to speak, but man- 
aged to tell his story with many a gasp and moan. 

“ He said he had sold his soul to the Devil and 
the Devil was anxiously waiting for him to die so 
that he might take possession of it. 

u ‘ And is there no escape for you ? ’ cried the, 
Man. 

“ ‘ Only one chance of escape/ said the Dying 
One, ‘ and that so slight a one that it is not worth 
mentioning. The Devil told me if I could save 
another man’s soul from his clutches, he would re- 
linquish his claim on mine ; but that was said in 
mockery, for he brought me here and chained me 
so that I would never see another man or get the 
chance to rescue him.’ 


200 


“ Then the Man told how his soul, too, was in 
jeopardy, and bade the Dying One hearken to the 
awful uproar made by the falling rocks and trees 
which the Devil was overthrowing. 

“ ‘ The hill will surely be cut in two long before 
dawn, at that rate/ said the Man, despairingly. ‘ If 
only I could hasten the dawn ! ’ 

“ While he was still speaking he caught sight of 
a taper which lighted the cave of the Dying One 
and a great hope seized him. 

“ ‘ There is a chance for us both,’ he cried. “ If 
you can save my soul, you also save your own ; we 
will deceive the Devil with this taper; make its 
light answer for the light of dawn.’ 

“ ‘ But this is the wrong direction for the dawn 
to appear,’ said the Dying One hopelessly. 

“ ‘ That is easy to remedy,’ answered the Man, in 
whom had arisen a frantic desire to fight for his 
soul’s redemption. ‘ The Devil would suspect me 
of some mischief if I were away very long, and 
then, too, I must be at hand to attract his attention 
to the light — the light of dawn, so you must carry 
the taper to a spot east of the Devil’s ravine and 
lie behind a hill so you will be hidden from him.’ 

“ ‘ But I am chained,’ moaned the Dying One, 
‘ and, besides, I am too weak to walk.’ 


201 


“ In answer the man seized a rock and broke the 
chain that bound the captive ; then, lifting him on 
his back and taking five of the tapers, he carried 
the Dying One swiftly to a hill east of the ravine 
where the Devil was at work. 

“ He laid the Dying One, who was almost ex- 
hausted, behind the little hill and gave him his in- 
structions : 

“ ‘ Light one taper, then wait a minute, then 
light another, wait another minute or two and light 
the third, and so on until all are lighted ; you will 
not have to move ; I will fix the tapers firmly in 
the ground within your reach and you will only 
have to light them ; but wait until after midnight 
and do not wait too long, for the Devil is working 
hard.* 

“‘I will not live to do it/ gasped the Dying 
One. ‘ I am going now.’ 

“‘You must live; you shall,’ cried the man des- 
perately. ‘ Remember your own soul as well as 
mine is at stake.’ 

“ ‘ I will try/ the Dying One whispered. ‘ I will 
hold out if I can.’ 

“ Then the man left him and returned to the 
scene of the Devil’s operations. There he stood 
aghast at the sight that met his gaze ; great progress 


202 


had been made ; the Devil had begun to cut at the 
edge of the creek and worked straight across the 
hill, cutting it down to its base ; huge boulders 
were piled up on each side of the ravine in a rough, 
helter-skelter mass. It seemed as though Chaos 
had come again. And away down in the ravine, 
the Devil was working as steadily as ever, while 
his diabolical laughter mingled with the noise made 
by the displaced rocks. He was more than half 
way across the hill now and a few hours more would 
see his work done. 

“ A horrible fear seized the man lest the Dying 
One should die before the tapers were lighted. 
Would midnight never come? He dared not go 
away again lest the Devil’s suspicions should be 
aroused and he should be followed ; all would then 
be lost, so he must stay where he was and bide his 
time. 

“ His anxiety was fearful ; would the light fail to 
appear? Was the Dying One already dead? 

“ Then at last — at last — a very, very faint light 
appeared on the horizon and once more hope held 
sway in the breast of the man, but the light was so 
very faint that he could not be quite sure it was not 
conjured up out of his own heated imagination ; but 
soon the second taper was lighted and the light 


203 


grow stronger; then he sprang down and called out 
in a voice that could be heard above all the uproar: 

“ 6 Look ! Look ! the dawn ! ’ 

“ But the Devil did not stop, only laughed, and 
cried : 

u< Not yet! not yet L 

“Then the light grew brighter and the birds 
began to waken ; the Devil stopped work at last 
and stood looking intently toward the East. 

“ When the noise, made by his work of destruc- 
tion, had ceased, the birds could be heard twitter- 
ing softly ; and when the horizon was all aglow with 
light one bird, grown bold, sang out so loud and 
sweet and clear that the Devil, no longer doubting 
that dawn had come, gave one last savage dig with 
his mighty pick, leaving behind an immense cavern 
(the Wet Cave) and fled away, shrieking in his 
baffled rage. 

“ Then the Man, rejoicing greatly, hurried to the 
little hill where the tapers were burning. All five 
were burning brightly, but the Dying One lay 
dead, with his hand outstretched to the fifth taper, 
which had taken the last vestige of his strength to 
light. 

“He had done his work faithfully, and on his 
face lay the peace of God which passeth all under- 
standing.” 


204 


When we had commented on the legend, the 
General said : 

“ Speaking of that part of the country reminds 
me of a little incident that occurred not many years 
ago. Perhaps it will interest you.” 

AT LATONIA. 

“ The race course at Latonia lay bathed in sun- 
shine on a certain May afternoon, not many years 
ago. It was Derby Day. I sat in the grand stand 
and through my opera glasses viewed the well-kept 
course surrounded by beautiful green hills, and I 
watched the magnificent horses as they came tear- 
ing around the curve with foam-flecked sides, dis- 
tended nostrils, and eager, excited eyes. 

“ But I found greater interest in watching the 
faces of the people about me ; interested faces of the 
idle pleasure seekers who had nothing at stake, and 
the strained, anxious faces of those who had just 
risked their last dollar. 

“ Directly in front of me sat a man and his wife 
belonging to the laboring class, both of whom 
looked good-hearted and commonplace. When the 
race was over the man went down to the betting 
ring, and his wife fell into conversation with a 


205 


woman sitting beside her who had been placing 
bets through a messenger and had been winning. 

“ This woman explained to the unsophisticated 
stranger how such things were done, and it all 
seemed so easy and simple that the next time the 
boy came, he took the money of the second woman, 
too. 

“ She was terribly nervous over it, and confided 
her fears to her new acquaintance : 

“ ‘ I really oughtn’t to have risked it ; it was the 
money my husband gave me last night to pay the 
month’s rent, which will be due to-morrow. I 
don’t know why he gave it to me, for he usually 
pays the rent himself. He got paid off last night, 
so we will have something, even if I should lose, 
but, oh, I hope I won’t ! ’ 

“ She did lose, however, and then she ventured 
the remainder of the money, and lost that, too. I 
shall never forget the look on her face ; it was piti- 
ful ; she was frightened and despairing and said to 
her companion : 

“ ‘ William will have to pay the rent, now, and 
he will be so angry ; he thinks it is so wicked 1£> 
bet, but it seemed so easy when I saw you win- 
ning.’ 


206 


“ Then I got up and went down to see what 
William was doing, fearing that he, too, had been 
led to wager his hard-earned money ; and my fears 
were confirmed. He had lost his last dollar and I 
overheard him tell a man with him: 

“ ‘ I am out of work, now ; was paid off last night 
and had enough to keep us until I could get 
another job, and now it is all gone ! ’ 

“ Then he brightened a little as he added : 
u ‘ Luckily, I gave my wife money to pay the 
month’s rent, so we will have a roof over our 
heads, at least. I thought I would make sure of 
that much before I came out here.’ 

“ I went back to the grand stand, and was sit- 
ting in my former place behind his wife when he 
came up there. The poor, frightened little woman 
told him at once what she had done — wagered and 
lost all the rent money. His face turned ghastly 
white, but he uttered no word of reproach ; how 
could he ? 

“ His eyes had a hunted look, and his lips 
seemed stiff as he said : 

a< We had better go now, Jane.’ 

“ He bent over her to get his umbrella, and, as 
he did so, his racing ticket with its cabalistic 


207 


figures calling for his last penny, fell into her lap. 
Then she understood.” 

* * * * * * * 

The pathetic little incident touched us all 
deeply and we smoked in silence for a short time, 
then trooped off to bed. 


CHAPTER IX. 

“ Our Heavenly Host,” as Cobh called him, was 
throwing books at Dobson as I entered on the 
evening following that last recorded, but he turned 
to me with his seraphic smile ; somehow his beauti- 
ful, marble-like face was always most serene after 
an ebullition of temper. 

“Not tired of the old man’s stories yet?” he 
queried, genially. “ Well, I have just been think- 
ing of a little adventure of mine ; we will give it 
an odd title as it is an odd tale.” 

THE REMAINS OF THE MARQUIS. 

“I was once taking a stage coach trip through 
the West, and, at a small country town, a man got 
in who proved an entertaining companion. You 


208 


young fellows who know nothing of that mode of 
travelling cannot understand what a boon a good 
companion is on such a trip. This man proved to 
be a detective, and as we went jolting over the 
mountains, he told me some of his varied experi- 
ences. 

“ I grew much interested and he then told me of 
the case on which he was at that time engaged ; a 
few years previous five gentlemen of high birth and 
title, but impoverished purse, had met in Paris and 
had there entered into a remarkable compact by 
which to better their fortunes ; they were to take 
turns in coming to America ; each one was given a 
year in which to seek and marry an American 
heiress, when he was to return to Paris and turn 
over to his fellow conspirators a certain percentage 
of all he received of his bride’s fortune. During 
his year in America his four friends were to defray 
all his expenses and he was expected to live in a 
very expensive manner and to spend money lav- 
ishly so as to increase his chances of winning a 
bride — and a fortune. 

“ Did you ever hear of so diabolical a plot ? ' 

“ Well, it succeeded admirably as far as the first 
man was concerned (by the way, they cast lots as to 
who should be the first to go). Number One came 


209 


straight to America and made at once for Long- 
Branch, where, being a man of fine education, pol- 
ished manners and apparent wealth, he was readily 
received, and, within a year, married a very rich 
girl, returned to Paris and divided with his 
friends. 

“ Then Number Two came over here, but he 
failed to secure a bride within the prescribed time; 
so he was obliged to go back as poor as he came 
and pay his quota of Number Three’s expenses. 

“ Number Three was successful, but his heiress 
refused to live anywhere but in New York, so he 
remained on this side the ocean, but sent his four 
friends their share of the spoils. 

“Then came Number Four, who was wined and 
dined at the palatial mansion of Number Three, 
where he met a woman whom he soon married ; she 
was killed in a railway accident while they were on 
their wedding tour, and Number Four came into 
possession of her vast fortune ; but instead of re- 
turning to Paris to divide and to help pay the ex- 
penses of Number Five, he suddenly disappeared. 

“ He had abundant means, as, aside from his 
bride’s fortune, he had received his share of the 
fortunes won by Number One and Number Three, 
and had had all his expenses paid for a year. 


210 


Therefore, when he disappeared so unaccountably, 
his four friends began a vigorous search. 

“ Poor Number Five, having been defrauded of 
his American trip, was wild with rage, and insisted 
that Number Three, who was conveniently living 
in New York, should set a detective to find the 
rascally Marquis. 

“ The man I met in the stage coach was the de- 
tective employed by Number Three. I became so 
much interested in the story that I resolved to ac- 
company Sanders, the detective, and help to find 
the Marquis. I had nothing else in the world to 
do and was fond of travelling. 

“ I seldom had any fixed destination, but would 
start off on a trip by rail, stage or boat, as the fancy 
seized me, and, joining some party on the way, 
would go wherever they happened to be going, 
stay as long as I liked, and, when I grew tired of 
the people or the place, would set off again. There- 
fore I offered my companionship to Sanders and he 
seemed glad enough to have me with him. He 
was then on his way to a small mining town, where 
he hoped to find his man. 

“ In Jimtown (I cannot remember names, but 
Jimtown will do), we learned that the Marquis had 
spent a month there and had put in his time gam- 


211 


bling with the miners, from whom he usually won 
their hard-earned gold. 

“ But one night a miner, infuriated by his losses, 
had shot at the Marquis, and the bullet had carried 
away his right ear; the next day he had left Jim- 
town and gone to Georgetown. Thither Sanders 
and I followed him, rather glad that he had lost an 
ear, as that would make it easier to find him. 

“The hotel-keeper at Georgetown remembered 
the one-eared Marquis perfectly, though he had 
remained there but a few days ; he had been at- 
tacked by a vicious dog at the hotel and his left 
hand had been so terribly mangled that it had been 
amputated, and then the unfortunate stranger had 
gone to live on a ranch outside the town, but there, 
too, he had met with an accident; a cutting ma- 
chine used on the ranch had cut off his left foot. 

“ We traced him to another small town, and 
there learned that a man with but one eye, one ear, 
one foot, and one hand, had spent several weeks 
there ; we felt sure this must have been the man 
we were seeking, and, sure enough, we learned that 
while attending a cock fight he had had his eye 
pecked out by one of the combatants. 

“ Weary of rural life, the Marquis had then 
visited San Francisco, but his crutch had slipped 


212 


as he was boarding a train ; he had fallen under 
the wheels and his right leg had been taken off at 
the knee ; his teeth had been knocked out, and 
three fingers were crushed. He spent some time in 
a hospital after that, and then hobbled forth again, 
only to have his nose broken by being run over in 
the street. Several times I had begged Sanders to 
give up the job and let the poor wretch go, since 
there was so little of him left. But Sanders was 
inexorable. 

“ ‘ I want the money he owes ; I must take his 
remains, if I do not find him alive/ he said. 

“ ‘ But, at this rate, there will be no remains/ I 
replied. I was right; that very day a boiler of 
one of the great steamships in the bay exploded, 
and several of the passengers were blown to atoms. 
Among them was the Marquis; there was abso- 
lutely nothing left of him:” 


213 


CHAPTER X. 

The last story I ever heard from the General's 
lips was told the night before I left the old Uni- 
versity to take up my residence in another city. 
No one ever knew how much I disliked to leave 
the gray old walls that had sheltered me so long, 
and the gay, careless, jovial men who had been 
kind to me when I, so very callow, went to live 
among them. 

But most of all I dreaded the separation from 
the quaint old man who had so charmed me. It 
was with a heavy heart, then, that I listened to this 
last story. 


THROUGH A GLASS, DARKLY. 

“ There was an insurrection in Mexico, the seat 
of the disturbance being a small village called 
Pasas, thirty miles from Lecheria. 

“One of the great New York dailies sent Lytle 
Thorne to report the affair, and on a bright June 
day he rode into the quaint old village. He had 
14 


214 


come as far as Lecheria by rail, and had there pro- 
cured a horse and continued his journey on horse- 
back. 

“ He found Pasas in a great state of turmoil ; a 
few of the native Mexicans, led by three determined 
men, had armed themselves against the authorities 
to avenge some fancied wrong. There was fighting 
going on in the main street as Lytle Thorne rode 
into it, and almost immediately a stone struck him 
in the side, leaving a huge, gaping wound ; he fell 
from his horse, but friendly hands were near, and 
he was lifted and borne into the nearest house. 
The wound was not dangerous, but proved exceed- 
ingly painful, and the unlucky sufferer was obliged 
to lie on his right side, the wound being in the left. 
What made it even more trying was the fact that 
the fighting was going on directly outside the win- 
dow of his room, but he was obliged to lie with his 
back to it, not being able to bear the least move- 
ment. So all day he listened to the noise in the 
street, and could see nothing of what was trans- 
piring. 

“ He was young and ambitious, and having been 
sent so many miles on this assignment, found it 
exceedingly hard not to be able to send to his 
paper the account of an eye witness. 


215 


“ Through the weary watches of that first night 
he tried not to think of his disappointment, and en- 
deavored to put himself to sleep by repeating a few 
lines of poetry ; he began with * Barbara Frietchie,’ 
but that proved too exciting, and ‘ The Raven’ was 
too melancholy ; then into his weary brain came 
the line, e As he rode down to Camelot,’ but he 
could get no farther. Who rode down to Camelot? 
To what did the line belong? Who wrote it — 
Byron? Whittier? Longfellow? Tennyson? Ah 
yes, Tennyson ! then the whole poem came back to 
him, and he remembered the poor maiden who 
watched the highway through a mirror, not daring 
to turn around to the window lest a curse fall upon 
her; one day, however, she left the magic web 
which she was weaving, and turned to the window 
to watch Sir Lancelot as he rode down to Camelot, 
and then — 

“ ‘ Out flew the web and floated wide ; 

The mirror cracked from side to side ; 

“ The curse is come upon me,” cried 
The Lady of Shalott.’ 

“ All night long the story ran in his mind, and 
in the morning it bore fruit. 

“His host was a quiet, courteous man, not in 
sympathy with the insurgents, and he and his 


216 


daughter, Juanita, were anxious to make their 
guest as comfortable as possible ; therefore when a 
long mirror was desired, one was soon secured and 
placed on an easel-like frame beside the bed. 

“ Lytle Thorne was delighted, for with his back 
close to the great wide window, and his face to the 
mirror, he could see all that occurred in the street 
without, and he sent daily reports to his paper, the 
editors of which little knew that their enterprising 
correspondent was witnessing the fight 1 through a 
glass, darkly.’ 

“ The uprising proved to be of less importance 
than was anticipated ; in a few days the leaders 
were secured and placed in prison, and the fighting 
was at an end. 

“ Justice moved quickly in Pasas ; the leaders — 
fierce, lawless Mexicans — were tried and sentenced 
to be shot; they were to be taken to Lecheria, 
where the sentence was to be executed ; but, pend- 
ing their removal, were kept in the prison at 
Pasas. 

“ As it happened, the prison was exactly opposite 
Lytle Thorne’s window, and as the street was very 
narrow, he could see the three dark faces, in separ- 
ate cells, pressed to the prison bars. Juanita, who 
tended Lytle Thorne so carefully and anticipated 


217 


every wish, was a pretty little maiden, with brown 
skin and fine, dark eyes. 

“ He, being able to speak Spanish fluently, held 
long conversations with her in the evenings when 
she had brought the lights and lowered the blind. 

“ But after the three insurgents had been ar- 
rested, Juanita was in a state of great excitement 
and spared but little time to the stranger. 

“ Now that the uprising was at an end Lytle 
Thorne was free to return home, but his wound 
kept him at Pasas, still watching the street through 
the mirror. On the day the prisoners were sen- 
tenced, little Juanita crept into Lytle Thorne’s 
room, sobbing and wringing her tiny brown hands. 

“ Then she told him her story. Guadal Rento, 
one of the three prisoners, was her lover and she 
had meant to marry him, though her father had 
forbidden the match, not looking with favor on the 
desperado. The distress of the little maiden 
touched Lytle Thorne deeply, and almost before 
he was aware of it, he was helping her to plan an 
escape. He gave her money to bribe the jailer, and 
money to give to Guadal Rento to enable him to 
get out of the country ; then he told her to take 
his horse, bought in Lecheria, and have it close at 


218 


hand for her lover to mount as soon as he was free 
of the prison wall. 

“ He went into the details of the escape, care- 
fully, and, in the excitement of the moment, quite 
forgot that he, a law-abiding citizen, was doing his 
best to thwart justice. 

“ Juanita, who had dried her tears, and was 
eager to be gone, thanked him many times in her 
pretty, sweet-voiced Spanish, and, with his money 
in her hands, started out, but seeing his pistol lying 
on a table, picked it up : 

“ ‘ May I give this to Guadal, too, Senor?’ 

“‘No, no/ answered Thorne, ‘he must shed no 
more blood ; once on my horse, he can easily 
escape/ 

“ Juanita replaced the pistol and went out, re- 
turning shortly to say that the jailer had accepted 
the bribe and would allow Guadal Rento to escape 
the following night. 

“ But, alas, for their hopes ! In the morning, the 
jailer, for some unknown reason, was deprived of 
his office, and Juanita’s own father appointed in his 
stead. 

“ Her father was very severe on the insurgents, 
and no money could corrupt him, so poor Juanita 
had to abandon all hope of saving her lover by 


219 


escape. Lytle Thorne, also, felt very much down- 
cast. 

“ The next day was the one set for conveying 
the prisoners to Lecheria, and the sentence of death 
was to be carried out as soon as they arrived there. 
Only one night remained and both Juanita and her 
ally were powerless. 

“ Night came but Juanita failed to come to light 
the candles in Lytle Thorne’s room, so he remained 
in the darkness, but the street outside was flooded 
with moonlight, and, in the glass, he could plainly 
see the prison opposite. 

“ The street seemed quite deserted, but, suddenly, 
Thorne saw a girl, Juanita, dart across the street 
and crouch in the shadow of the prison wall. 

“Then Guadal Rento appeared behind the bars 
of the window over her head, and Thorne could 
see that he was speaking to her. They could not 
have exchanged more than half-a-dozen sentences, 
when Juanita sprang out of the shadow, and raised 
her arm ; there was a gleam of steel in the moon- 
light, a pistol shot rang out on the night air, and 
Juanita turned and fled. 

“ Guadal Rento had fallen back in his cell. 

“ Lytle Thorne, sick with horror, heard Juanita 
enter the house and come straight to his door ; then 


220 


she entered and laid his money and the pistol 
(which he had not missed) on the table. 

“ ‘ Guadal Rento is free, Senor/ she said. 

“ Then, as she saw he had witnessed the whole 
scene through the glass, she drew down the blind, 
and lit the candles, saying, quietly : 

“ ( He told me to do it, if escape were impossible ; 
and, indeed, it is better to die at home.’ 

“ No suspicion attached to Juanita for the mur- 
der of Guadal Rento, but Lytle Thorne burned 
with impatience to be gone, and two days later took 
his departure. 

u Juanita half extended her hand to him as he 
was leaving, but he, thinking of Guadal Rento’s 
tragic death, could not take it. 

“ He smiled down at her, however, and turned 
away with her musical ‘ Adios, Senor/ lingering in 
his heart.” 


221 


CHAPTER XI. 

A year later I chanced upon Strang in Boston, 
where I was then living. I had never been particu- 
larly intimate with Strang, he was so much older 
than I, and so very reserved ; but I hailed him now 
with unfeigned pleasure as a link of my old Uni- 
versity life. 

I took him home with me, and when we were 
comfortably settled with our cigars, my first ques- 
tion was, “ How is the dear old Generalissimo ? ” 

“ He died six months ago,” said Strang. 

“ He did ? Poor old man ! ” 

We smoked in silence for a few moments, for 
my heart was heavy with regret ; then I spoke 
again : “ Did any of his relatives turn up at the 
last? he never appeared to have any; he always 
seemed such a lonely old fellow, for, although he 
had travelled all over the world and spoke so often 
of the friends with whom he had travelled, still 
none of them ever visited him at the University, to 
my knowledge.” 


222 


Strang looked at me with the lurking smile in 
his eyes which I had seen there several times be- 
fore and had not understood. 

“Yes,” he said, quietly, “ a fellow appeared at 
the old man’s funeral who proved to be a grand- 
nephew, or something of the sort, and, as John 
Castleton’s only living relative, took possession of 
his property; it seems there was a good deal. Well, 
this grandnephew told me some curious things 
about our old friend ; you spoke just now of his 
having travelled all over the world, so you will be 
surprised to hear that he had never been out of the 
city of New York ” 

I sprang to my feet in my excitement and faced 
my guest : “ What ! Never been out of New York ! 
But he told us, Strang, you knoic he told us hun- 
dreds of times of the places he had visited ; he was 
always telling some little incident which had oc- 
curred at the other side of the world, and Strang — 
his stories— the stories of the champagne corks — 
all those things happened in different places, and in 
many instances he knew the people, so there!” 

Strang smiled at my vehement defense'* of my 
old hero. 

“My dear boy,” he said, calmly, “ old John Cas- 
tleton was born a cripple , and never walked a step in 
his life.” 


223 


I sat down then and gazed at Strang in bewil- 
derment ; he took pity on me and explained : 

“ The General was a great reader, you remem- 
ber, and passionately fond of books of travel ; he 
put his whole heart in whatever he happened to be 
reading until it all became so real to him that he 
felt as though he had been travelling in company 
with the author of the book. I had suspected as 
much for some time, and that night he told about 
visiting the monastery with Robert Curzon, I was 
convinced, for I had that very book in my own 
library, so I slipped in to look at it, and that jour- 
ney of Robert Curzon\s was taken before the Gen- 
eral was born ! ” 

“ But the champagne corks ?” I asked, faintly. 

“ My theory about the champagne corks is 
this : the General drank quantities of champagne, 
and, on some occasion while reading and drinking, 
he wished to make a note of something of particu- 
lar interest, and, having nothing else at hand, used 
the cork ; the idea pleased him, and he made many 
notes in the same way, merely a name, an initial or 
a date ; anything to serve as a reminder. The 
night Dobson upset the corks and you asked their 
meaning, the old General saw a chance to make 
himself entertaining, so he, at once, proceeded to 


224 


tell the story of ‘ The Monk of Simopetria;’ the 
description of the monastery and of the monk who 
had never seen a woman came directly from Robert 
Curzon’s book of travels in the Levant ; the rest of 
the story was compiled from newspaper articles, 
and very cleverly done, too ; for instance, the story 
of the man who was crucified formed one article ; 
that of the man who had a dagger thrust through 
his hand another, and that of a man who lived in a 
cab was a third. I chanced to have read all of them, 
though they were published in different papers 
and several years apart; you may imagine my 
amusement as I listened to the old man weaving 
these things together. Half a dozen incidents put 
together well made an excellent story, and, as we 
were all greatly interested, the General was de- 
lighted with his success, and continued to entertain 
us in that manner. I believe some of his stories 
had no foundation whatever, but were purely im- 
aginary. However, they served their purpose and 
brought all the gay young fellows in the building 
to the GeneraPs den, night after night. I believe 
I was the only one who suspected the old man, and 
I was as much interested as any of you. 

“ The General knew his tales would be more ap- 
preciated if he gave them a personal element, and 


225 


for that reason he claimed to have been to all the 
places he described. It seems he had quarreled 
with his only relative, the grandnephew, and for- 
bidden him ever to come near him ; so being cut 
off from kindred and from the outside world, he 
sought to make himself agreeable to the men in 
the old University, and he certainly succeeded.” 

“Yes,” I assented, “he was delightful. Poor, 
dear, old Generalissimo!” 




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